Phone Call to X, today, 1:14 p.m.
V: Baby! What’s the best thing that could happen to me?
X: We got married.
X: You’re pregnant!
V: NO! Come on! A little less about “you” and a little more about “me!”
X: Napoleon got fired.
X: Betty Ford got fired.
X: I don’t know.
V: Think more globally.
[answer after the next call]
Phone Call to Lily, in the Maternity Ward, 1:17 p.m.
V: Lily, what’s the best thing that could happen?
Lily: Bipolar Betty got fired.
Lily: Well, that’s the best thing that could happen to me!
V: Come on! Why is no one getting this?
OUR OFFICE CAUGHT ON FIRE TODAY! BWAH HAHAHAHAHAHA!
Unfortunately, the public servants of the ‘burbs are markedly more responsive than those of the District, and the fire was squelched before it got to my floor. When I heard those alarms go off though, mama was out the door with all her goods in under 2 minutes. The only thing I left behind that was personal were two pairs of 6 year old Nine West boots.
See? It pays to clean out your desk!
Tomorrow’s task: fill all office fire extinguishers with kerosene.
Your metamorphosis to Milton from “Office Space” is nearly complete. Burn it all, let the insurance companies sort it out!
A fire? How lovely!!! Please tell me there’s enough smoke and water damage to the affected floor(s) that everyone will need to work from home.
As happy as I’d be for you to get to dance around a bonfire comprised of your workplace misery, I can’t help but wonder if wishing for a more specifically targeted conflagration might work best – one that allows you keep the job, with less aggravation. Perhaps something contained in Betty’s office? Napoleon’s?
Double LOL if the smokers started it.
First of all, I’m incredibly proud that you’ve reduced your personal goods to such that you could haul ass in record time, taking them with you.
I worked at a university once where the cleaning man would take massive shits in the administrator’s office: spiraling thick rope shits twisting on themselves. Then he’d stand around the corner waiting for people to see them. When you came out, he’d step forward and smirk.
Life is strange, Velvet. That’s all I’ve got to say.
Tomorrow: the woman who worked at the Smithsonian and carried a bucket of cement to work every day.
I love you. Hugs. Cubie
Hammer – I am quite proud, though I had no red stapler of which to speak. They like to order office supplies for you at my job. That way they can get the cheapest. My current stapler looks like it had a stroke.
Meghan – Fuck no. Those damn firemen got the fire contained in record time. Assholes.
Dagny – There’s always hope I think. You know…I just put two and two together. Ha ha. You must REALLY get a kick out of these stories. We must do that drink someday!
JohnnyDC – THAT WOULD ROCK!
Cube – There I was, sitting in Baja Fresh in Fairfax, about to text from my phone to your email to tell you…I really thought you would get a kick out of that. And yes, I’m down to just a few pair of boots that I don’t care about very much.
You’ve got all my contacts (I think) Velvet, so text away.
Hammer, either that or she’s going to go out like Shoshanna in “Inglorious Basterds”, (spoiler alert) locking all the Nazis inside her theater and burning it down, while mocking them from her projected image on the screen.