I’m just sickly enough to like wood paneling in the professional atmosphere.
I used to work in a very nice ugly building. The ceilings were low and made of the same kind of paneling as high school portables, that disturbingly porous stuff that makes you think of worms and asbestos and if you stabbed your pencil into it, it just might stick. I never tried to stick anything into the ceiling, being too much of a pansy in both the school and work phases of life, but I imagine that a nice mechanical pencil would work nicely. In my old work station the aforementioned wood paneling was decorated with post-it notes and weird folk-y art featuring roosters with santa hats and driving tractors into endless fields of hay. All of this was overseen by the paper machete skeleton hanging from the pencil sharpener (which certainly no one ever used because we were all hanging onto our mechanical pencils with our eyes on the ceiling). Although I can’t vouch for what material the counter tops were made of, I can assure you that it made a very cheerful noise when slammed with a date-stamper.
Very recently my workplace has migrated into a new, shnazzy building. To my estimation it looks exactly like a Nugget market, without any of the cheese wheels that makes Nugget tolerable. [As a side note, I have experimented in calling the Nugget “the nug,” after being influenced in that direction by pals. Although it was more as a sandwich reference than a supermarket, I still find this nickname is poorly received.]
This new building is bright and inviting…and consequently sucks like the south. Because I have an “Okay-please-have-a-seat” kind of job, I am suddenly exposed to a multitude of cranky, confused and generally shrieking individuals, which is a mild rendition of my worst nightmare. Gone are the days when I would slouch over my text books and be so infrequently disturbed that I was often startled by any noise. Now I have to use my text books to slap away the hands of the rabid brats attempting to climb over the counter and soil my beloved date-stamper with their sticky little Reese’s Pieces fingers.
Maybe I’m just feeling extra surly because my new mandatory headset (emblazoned inside: “I Don’t Want Your Lice”) is squeezing my brain a little too tightly.
I used to work in a very nice ugly building. The ceilings were low and made of the same kind of paneling as high school portables, that disturbingly porous stuff that makes you think of worms and asbestos and if you stabbed your pencil into it, it just might stick. I never tried to stick anything into the ceiling, being too much of a pansy in both the school and work phases of life, but I imagine that a nice mechanical pencil would work nicely. In my old work station the aforementioned wood paneling was decorated with post-it notes and weird folk-y art featuring roosters with santa hats and driving tractors into endless fields of hay. All of this was overseen by the paper machete skeleton hanging from the pencil sharpener (which certainly no one ever used because we were all hanging onto our mechanical pencils with our eyes on the ceiling). Although I can’t vouch for what material the counter tops were made of, I can assure you that it made a very cheerful noise when slammed with a date-stamper.
Very recently my workplace has migrated into a new, shnazzy building. To my estimation it looks exactly like a Nugget market, without any of the cheese wheels that makes Nugget tolerable. [As a side note, I have experimented in calling the Nugget “the nug,” after being influenced in that direction by pals. Although it was more as a sandwich reference than a supermarket, I still find this nickname is poorly received.]
This new building is bright and inviting…and consequently sucks like the south. Because I have an “Okay-please-have-a-seat” kind of job, I am suddenly exposed to a multitude of cranky, confused and generally shrieking individuals, which is a mild rendition of my worst nightmare. Gone are the days when I would slouch over my text books and be so infrequently disturbed that I was often startled by any noise. Now I have to use my text books to slap away the hands of the rabid brats attempting to climb over the counter and soil my beloved date-stamper with their sticky little Reese’s Pieces fingers.
Maybe I’m just feeling extra surly because my new mandatory headset (emblazoned inside: “I Don’t Want Your Lice”) is squeezing my brain a little too tightly.
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