rumblings

Today we had a baby shower for a colleague and filled ourselves with two kinds of lasagna (meat and veg), coleslaw, macaroni salad, garlic bread, strawberries, melon, cantaloupe and pineapple. We were stuffed.

And I don't know where the expectant mother would have put all her food as the present occupant takes up the majority of her belly.

Well, it wasn't long after our little party that we all experienced some major rumbling. At first, I thought someone was moving large furniture around. Then the floor began moving and my chair started to bounce, my desk was shaking and my computer screen was vibrating.

Any more movement and I would have to get myself a thesaurus.

With these prolonged rumblings, I finally just yelled out to my colleagues and asked if anyone else was shaking. Yes! was the cry from the chorus. It wasn't, as someone joked to mama-to-be, premature labour or indigestion.

What's worse, though? Thinking your building is about to collapse or the idea of recalling the lunch you just ate and competing for a stall in the bathroom?

where you at?

The only person we should be competing with is yesterday's version of ourselves.

Seems I've forgotten about this and haven't been managing myself very well lately. My fuse is short -- non-existent, really -- and I'm getting more drained fighting things that just aren't worth the battle. I need a drink.

Correction: drinks.

And a reminder, perhaps. I miss my old laid-back self. Where'd she go? She was much more fun and less weighed down by the general stupidity of the office. In her place is a lady of rage. She demands a lot of time and energy and, quite honestly, she needs to go.

So, methinks it's time for a buffet.

You know, to settle and ground my appetite-diminished, alcohol-seeking self. Food is love and I haven't been feeling much of that at the office these days. It's time I remember that only I can feed and satisfy myself.

work it out

The universe is conspiring to reduce me to a skeletal drunk.

I haven't quite been the same since getting sick a few weeks ago. My diminished appetite isn't yet fully restored and the circus that is my job is driving me to think more about when I can next go out for drinks.

I joke about self-medicating, but it feels like I'm becoming the joke these days. Not funny...

After today's assembly of the motley crew that is my department, it's clear that giant bowls of ice cream, bottomless teapots and lunchtime rants aren't going to cut it. And forget the wooly mammoth. I need something to address my anger and disappointment with the way things have turned at the office. Because, apparently, I can't reconcile these things myself.

Getting drunk with colleagues seems a fun and easy distraction. We'll probably exchange inappropriate thoughts and encourage each other to behave badly, but when we're back in the office next week we'll surely return to our dark, little corners and continue muttering under our collective breath.

And what will we be muttering? When's the next outing?

lunch and learn

Had sushi for lunch on Friday with some colleagues. Probably the most fun I've had out to lunch in a very long time. Clearly, it was a much needed outing for us all.

We were two women, two men and a table full of opinion. You can learn a lot about your colleagues when they're having a good time. Defences come down and out comes the truth. If only there was sake, too. Can you imagine?

Can't wait to see what this week's after-work outing will produce, as alcohol will surely be involved. It's a short work week and everyone is looking forward to letting off a little more steam. And we haven't invited the boss so people should feel more free to express themselves -- not that we're a shy bunch around each other.

Could get ugly. Or fantastically entertaining. I'm voting for the latter, of course. Either way, transcripts the following day... [kidding]

searing mad

If yesterday was a day for poultry and fries, today was the kind of day that called for a wooly mammoth and an ocean's worth of alcohol.

I could have seared some mammoth sirloins with the rage I felt today. Easily.

[breathe]

Anger isn't fun. It's draining and distracting and, worst of all, makes me lose my appetite. That's not something I care to lose.

And anyone who can make that happen ought to watch out. Forget that hell hath no fury business.

Ever try making nice with an appetite-depressed woman?

feed me

I've been out to lunch for two consecutive days now. Let me rephrase that. I've gone out for lunch with colleagues over the past two days, and I have another date this Friday. I feel so popular.

As my month of RFP hell comes to a close, it's starting to feel like the chain that binds me to my desk has a few more links than I thought. I'm not just limited to visiting the kitchen or bathroom anymore. I can actually leave the building. Hallelujah!

Yesterday, we went for Chinese food. We shared a giant platter of chow mein and drank from what seemed to be a bottomless teapot. And as busy as my day was, going out really helped take the edge off. That's a luxury usually only reserved for wine -- a true and constant love. I returned feeling lighter and refuelled.

And today I finally felt like I could breathe again. So off we went to the chalet to vent over rotisserie chicken, french fries and bowls of special sauce.

Because when you're expressing frustration, let's face it, a salad just doesn't cut it.

out to lunch

When the ladies go out to lunch, the stereotypical image is one of a bunch of girlies sitting around gossiping about boys and other juicy topics. The gathering is loud and filled with whispers, laughter and gasps. Oh, and drinks. Lots of drinks. Nearby, other tables are collectively rolling their eyes at Table Estrogen.

At least, that's what comes to my mind. I've been to a few of those. Some are for emotional hand-holding and others are meant to encourage naughtiness and fun.

I choose door # 2, please and thank you.

So what do men talk about when they eat together? According to Mr. Man, they primarily meet to discuss business, complain about work or talk sports. Yawn.

I picture a bunch of well-dressed men, posturing about how well things are going and offering unsolicited opinions about what the other attendees should be doing with their business. I see chests getting puffed up and men on the verge of pounding their pectoral muscles. I see food being inhaled without much thought for chewing. Maybe a business card or two gets passed around. Double yawn.

My curiosity about what men talk about was prompted by seeing a generally anti-social colleague go out to lunch with a very social one. What could they possibly have to talk about? And, perhaps more notably, why do I even care? I don't, normally.

It must be that it's a distraction from the overwhelming and ever-growing work amassing itself on my desk. Maybe a little jealousy, too? They have time to go out and I don't. Who cares if it's just about comparing notes? It's an opportunity to leave the stress of the office (although temporarily) and spend some time playing with other people.

And I like to play. It's something I should do more often. Just wish my sandbox wasn't filled with all this paperwork.

c is for cooties

Woke up in the middle of the night yesterday with a sore throat. It was that raw, hurts to swallow kind of sore throat that makes you want to stay home and curl up on the sofa with a giant cup of tea and an oversized blanket.

Or maybe you'd prefer a hot toddy. Whatever.

I just hate that my first thought was that I couldn't be sick right now because I had so much work to do -- because sickness, as we all know, can be sooo inconvenient. Why can't my first reaction to the onset of illness be: Yay, sick day!

And I don't even know how I caught whatever it is that I have.

The new guy at the office has been coughing, the guy in the cubicle next to him called in sick yesterday, and the woman in the office next to mine has a chronic bronchial problem. Could have been any one of them.

It could even have been the toddler that visited the office the other day with his mama. The cute little guy waddled right up to my candy jar and poked and pawed at the glass trying to get to those vibrant sour cherry balls. [This is MY candy, kid... don't you read?]

You see? This is why sharing is bad.

at the very most

"I like to have a martini,

Two at the very most.

After three I’m under the table,

after four I’m under my host."

                                    Dorothy Parker

Went for drinks after work today to welcome the new guy into the fold. He hasn't even been with us for two solid weeks -- after the first, he was already on vacation -- but off we went to pickle ourselves.

I had two martinis. Two Bailey's mintinis. Why not experiment, right? It seemed an appropriate choice given it's winter and it reminded me of having hot chocolate (yes, with Bailey's) after a day of ice skating with Mr. Man. Maybe not the best option for pickling one's self, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

[insert lesson here]

When the first one arrived, it looked like frothy, warm milk with a hint of cocoa. It was served in a stemless martini glass. With my youthful looks and this would-be glass of milk in front of me, they might as well have given me my blankie and a giant straw to slurp it up.

[insert wooden ruler to rap knuckles after not learning first lesson here]

Well, the second one arrived with a maraschino cherry wedged to the rim and a stumpy, fat straw bobbing in it. I hate maraschino cherries -- not that they would have known -- but what's up with the inconsistent presentation and, more importantly, with the blasphemous addition of a straw to this drink?

They just stopped short of topping it with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. Maybe some cake and a pony ride when I'm done? Blah...

sour puss

There is a candy jar on my desk at the office. I never quite fill it to the top because I have little to no discipline when it comes to sweets planted in front of me, but there are other reasons too.

I don't like to share. Is that bad? I should qualify: I don't like to share my candy. MY candy. Mine. I will share and often find myself encouraging people to take some but, really, I would rather not if given a choice.

For one, I don't believe in the communal bowl. I don't want people molesting my sugary bliss with their flu-season-poor-bathroom-washing-habits-money-exchanging hands. [shudder] That's what the spoon is for, people! Second, the more they eat, the less I sweet. And I need it.

Daily stress on the job can be moderated by a little shot of sugar. Hell, even the non-stressful days are a more fun with a treat. It may only be temporary but I don't care. I eat well, otherwise. I'm not a fast-food junkie (save for this week's party mix fiasco) and I exercise moderately. Put a pack of dark chocolate or gummy somethings in my hand, and I'm skipping down the street like a kid again. Nerd. I know.

But back to my selfishness. People have been helping themselves to my candy more frequently these past few weeks.

I suppose it's nice that it makes other people happy too but, you know... So this week, I put in sour cherry balls. Love these. Love. Love. Love.


The other sweet teeth in the office aren't too pleased with my latest choice and have already aired their grievances. Truthfully, I chose these sours because I knew it would put them off, but my boss (go figure) is a big fan.

So while I've successfully managed to keep the mass consumers at bay, I've now drawn the attention of the actual hand that feeds me... What to do?