My new address is:
http://williamfarrant.tumblr.com/
Monday, March 5, 2012
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Chocolate Chip Cookie Fantasy For Your Man
This one is for all you Valentine's cynics, including myself. That's why I wrote it last year. And now I'm making an annual tradition out of posting it on the "special" day.
Chocolate Chip Cookie Fantasy For Your Man
This one’s easy. Your man will get so hot and bothered watching you “make” cookies he’ll be too dumb to notice you’re not baking anything at all. We’ll be using all our old tricks here: cleavage, hair toss, puckered lips, playful accidents, etc… You’d think this shit would get old for them, but they bite every time. For whatever reason, they can’t get enough. You can guarantee these eleven minutes of your life will earn you their obedience for weeks to come. I’ll keep it simple. You don’t want to over think this:
Ingredients:
A bag of Chips Ahoy cookies
Some Flour
Pans, bowls, spatula, electronic devices
Eighties rock music (Poison, Warrant, but feel free to improvise)
Hairspray and other cosmetics to taste
An Apron
High Heels
1. Once you get the music going the first step is to undress in the bedroom and apply the hairspray and cosmetics. Then walk out to the kitchen wearing only the apron and high heels. He’ll likely be in his chair with a beer, his eyes wide open, like he just discovered year-round Christmas.
2. “Preheat oven.” You don’t actually need to turn it on. Just go to the oven and flip on the timer or light. He’ll never know the difference, and he’ll strain his neck trying to look at your ass when you lean over to “turn it on.” Ha!
3. Do a hair flip. Toss it to the side, bat your eyes, and giggle even though there is nothing remotely funny happening. He’ll probably swallow too much air while taking a sip of his beer. This is good.
4. Reach into the cupboards and knock around some bowls, pans, whatever. As long as there is some noise your man will understand that progress is being made.
5. Walk to the pantry and get some flour. Open it too quickly so some poofs into the air. Again, giggle. Say, “Hehe, silly me.” Take the flour to the counter and pour some in a bowl.
6. Grab a spatula and slowly turn the flour over in the bowl. Hold the spatula like you’ve never held one before. While you’re doing it act a little confused, like your man is talking to you about dirt bikes. He’ll like this and be thinking, “It’s like she doesn’t know how to make cookies all of a sudden!”
7. Grab one of the electric devices you own. Anyone will do: food processor, can opener, blender. Again, refer to the “as long as it makes noise” step from earlier. You can make it a little more realistic if you like and actually use an electric mixer. Your call.
8. Move about the kitchen taking things out and putting them away. Open the fridge a few times. Stop. Act like you forgot something and then just remembered it. Pick up a spoon and drop it. Touch your lips. Say, “Whoops.”
9. Open the oven. Take out the pan of Chips Ahoy cookies you put in there before you started the Fantasy Recipe. Hold them with one hand- oven mitts are a nice touch but not necessary. Giggle. Smile. Giggle. Look at your man. Tilt your head to the side. Say, “All done!”
10. Put the cookies on the counter. Go get changed and head out for a drink with the girls. Your man will be fine. He’ll phone his buddies and tell them all about it, probably adding in some details, like how it ended with something sexual.
11. Save the link to this recipe in his bookmarks folder as “Steelers lose; Roethlisberger injured.”
Chocolate Chip Cookie Fantasy For Your Man
This one’s easy. Your man will get so hot and bothered watching you “make” cookies he’ll be too dumb to notice you’re not baking anything at all. We’ll be using all our old tricks here: cleavage, hair toss, puckered lips, playful accidents, etc… You’d think this shit would get old for them, but they bite every time. For whatever reason, they can’t get enough. You can guarantee these eleven minutes of your life will earn you their obedience for weeks to come. I’ll keep it simple. You don’t want to over think this:
Ingredients:
A bag of Chips Ahoy cookies
Some Flour
Pans, bowls, spatula, electronic devices
Eighties rock music (Poison, Warrant, but feel free to improvise)
Hairspray and other cosmetics to taste
An Apron
High Heels
1. Once you get the music going the first step is to undress in the bedroom and apply the hairspray and cosmetics. Then walk out to the kitchen wearing only the apron and high heels. He’ll likely be in his chair with a beer, his eyes wide open, like he just discovered year-round Christmas.
2. “Preheat oven.” You don’t actually need to turn it on. Just go to the oven and flip on the timer or light. He’ll never know the difference, and he’ll strain his neck trying to look at your ass when you lean over to “turn it on.” Ha!
3. Do a hair flip. Toss it to the side, bat your eyes, and giggle even though there is nothing remotely funny happening. He’ll probably swallow too much air while taking a sip of his beer. This is good.
4. Reach into the cupboards and knock around some bowls, pans, whatever. As long as there is some noise your man will understand that progress is being made.
5. Walk to the pantry and get some flour. Open it too quickly so some poofs into the air. Again, giggle. Say, “Hehe, silly me.” Take the flour to the counter and pour some in a bowl.
6. Grab a spatula and slowly turn the flour over in the bowl. Hold the spatula like you’ve never held one before. While you’re doing it act a little confused, like your man is talking to you about dirt bikes. He’ll like this and be thinking, “It’s like she doesn’t know how to make cookies all of a sudden!”
7. Grab one of the electric devices you own. Anyone will do: food processor, can opener, blender. Again, refer to the “as long as it makes noise” step from earlier. You can make it a little more realistic if you like and actually use an electric mixer. Your call.
8. Move about the kitchen taking things out and putting them away. Open the fridge a few times. Stop. Act like you forgot something and then just remembered it. Pick up a spoon and drop it. Touch your lips. Say, “Whoops.”
9. Open the oven. Take out the pan of Chips Ahoy cookies you put in there before you started the Fantasy Recipe. Hold them with one hand- oven mitts are a nice touch but not necessary. Giggle. Smile. Giggle. Look at your man. Tilt your head to the side. Say, “All done!”
10. Put the cookies on the counter. Go get changed and head out for a drink with the girls. Your man will be fine. He’ll phone his buddies and tell them all about it, probably adding in some details, like how it ended with something sexual.
11. Save the link to this recipe in his bookmarks folder as “Steelers lose; Roethlisberger injured.”
Friday, December 30, 2011
Festive Meanderings
First off, I do my Christmas shopping on December 24th every year. It's quite painless. In the weeks, and sadly months, leading up to the Big Event people often ask, "Have you got everything yet?" I reply with, "No, I haven't." This is usually followed by, "Doesn't this stress you out?" To which I add, "No, it doesn't."
A plan of attack is vital. I have military-grade visions when it comes to Christmas shopping. I'm in. And I'm out. Granted, I'm a single guy in my thirties with no children, but still, it doesn't have to be difficult.
This is what I do:
-At some point in the week before Christmas I make decisions. I "decide" that I'm getting "this" for "that person" and "that" for "this person." It takes a few minutes of thinking, but to be on the safe side, I give it a day or so to percolate in my head before I make any Firm Decisions.
-Once I have made Firm Decisions, I locate where these purchases can be made. For the past several years I have done all my shopping in Sidney. It really narrows down the attack-zone when the mission is set in motion.
And so, today's missions went like this:
After having lunch with my parents I drove into Sidney and Parked My Car. When I got out I walked to the first store I needed to go to. Conveniently, all the stores I planned to visit were within a two block radius of each other. I entered the first store and found an Employee. I asked him Where I Might Find The Thing I Want. It took a few seconds for the Employee to process, but then he directed me to a shelf. I went to the shelf and picked up the Thing I Wanted. I followed this up by walking to the Area Where You Pay For Things and joined the line. Naturally, this is the most stressful part of Purchasing Things as it can take up to five minutes for it to be your turn. After I endured a Five Minute Wait In Line I purchased my Thing and left the store. I repeated this process four more times until I had completed all of my Christmas Shopping. My trip to Sidney also included buying a bag of unbleached flour from the health food store, and a hot chocolate as a reward for my effectiveness. Total amount of time from start to finish: one hour.
During my mission I made a few observations about my fellow consumers that left me bewildered, their stunning lack of tact mesmerizing in what is supposed to be a Joyous Time Of Year:
1. A man pulling at his hair and staring at his credit card as if it had gone into cardiac arrest.
2. Many people of varying ages in varying stages of "Zombiement" ghosting their way across streets and entering through exit doors.
3. Wild, menacing teenagers off their leashes standing with no purpose in the middle of sidewalks and doorways.
4. Men in needlessly large vehicles parking in a) small car spots, and b) handicapped spots.
5. Women with needlessly large purses using said purses as battering rams to get by other women with needlessly large purses.
6. Employees of stores grimacing with sweat, yet smiling wildly as they say "Merry Christmas. Thanks for coming!" while you damn well know what they want to say is "Get the fuck out of my store, please."
As I got into my truck to leave, in the Scotia Bank parking lot, I observed a couple putting a toddler in a car seat. The toddler was wailing away, making a real fuss. It's not an uncommon site. Children are unpredictable. They make noise. They cry. WE ALL KNOW THIS. A man and a woman, late fifties, wearing parkas it seemed, looked over to the car and said, "My word, what are they doing to that poor child?" People like this annoy me. They most likely have kids. But their kids NEVER had tantrums. I looked back to the older couple and said, "It's torture. Waterboarding, likely."
The best gift I'll receive this Christmas is the look of utter horror those two people gave me.
Seasons Beatings!
A plan of attack is vital. I have military-grade visions when it comes to Christmas shopping. I'm in. And I'm out. Granted, I'm a single guy in my thirties with no children, but still, it doesn't have to be difficult.
This is what I do:
-At some point in the week before Christmas I make decisions. I "decide" that I'm getting "this" for "that person" and "that" for "this person." It takes a few minutes of thinking, but to be on the safe side, I give it a day or so to percolate in my head before I make any Firm Decisions.
-Once I have made Firm Decisions, I locate where these purchases can be made. For the past several years I have done all my shopping in Sidney. It really narrows down the attack-zone when the mission is set in motion.
And so, today's missions went like this:
After having lunch with my parents I drove into Sidney and Parked My Car. When I got out I walked to the first store I needed to go to. Conveniently, all the stores I planned to visit were within a two block radius of each other. I entered the first store and found an Employee. I asked him Where I Might Find The Thing I Want. It took a few seconds for the Employee to process, but then he directed me to a shelf. I went to the shelf and picked up the Thing I Wanted. I followed this up by walking to the Area Where You Pay For Things and joined the line. Naturally, this is the most stressful part of Purchasing Things as it can take up to five minutes for it to be your turn. After I endured a Five Minute Wait In Line I purchased my Thing and left the store. I repeated this process four more times until I had completed all of my Christmas Shopping. My trip to Sidney also included buying a bag of unbleached flour from the health food store, and a hot chocolate as a reward for my effectiveness. Total amount of time from start to finish: one hour.
During my mission I made a few observations about my fellow consumers that left me bewildered, their stunning lack of tact mesmerizing in what is supposed to be a Joyous Time Of Year:
1. A man pulling at his hair and staring at his credit card as if it had gone into cardiac arrest.
2. Many people of varying ages in varying stages of "Zombiement" ghosting their way across streets and entering through exit doors.
3. Wild, menacing teenagers off their leashes standing with no purpose in the middle of sidewalks and doorways.
4. Men in needlessly large vehicles parking in a) small car spots, and b) handicapped spots.
5. Women with needlessly large purses using said purses as battering rams to get by other women with needlessly large purses.
6. Employees of stores grimacing with sweat, yet smiling wildly as they say "Merry Christmas. Thanks for coming!" while you damn well know what they want to say is "Get the fuck out of my store, please."
As I got into my truck to leave, in the Scotia Bank parking lot, I observed a couple putting a toddler in a car seat. The toddler was wailing away, making a real fuss. It's not an uncommon site. Children are unpredictable. They make noise. They cry. WE ALL KNOW THIS. A man and a woman, late fifties, wearing parkas it seemed, looked over to the car and said, "My word, what are they doing to that poor child?" People like this annoy me. They most likely have kids. But their kids NEVER had tantrums. I looked back to the older couple and said, "It's torture. Waterboarding, likely."
The best gift I'll receive this Christmas is the look of utter horror those two people gave me.
Seasons Beatings!
Confessions of an Office Boy 5 of 5
For a few years in my "mid to late twenties" I worked at a Legal Services company. Frequently, I emailed little quips and blurbs about my job to my mother. She kept them all. Many years after when I decided to start writing I put a bunch of them together in the hopes of making a story. I cleaned them up, adding bits here and there, but I could never quite make them into anything I felt "publishable." The writing style and tone were fine at the time, but changing them to any sort of "literary standard" drastically lost the sincerity in which they were written. So, I gave up on them... until now!!! I hate that I just did that, said "until now" prefaced by an ellipsis. Anyway, I'm going to "release" what I had put together on Facebook and on my shitty blog that I pay no attention to. This is "Episode 5 of 5" of Confessions of an Office Boy.
Email #21:
I will never ride the elevator at 645 Fort St. again. The building is old, splashed with character, charming, with tall ceilings, a rustic smell, and wicked architectural nuances. And the elevators, I am certain, are manually pulled between floors by minimum wage workers named Paulo and Cedric.
I take the elevator because I have to go to Noble Young Virgin on the fifth floor, but today’s experience changed that. At the North end of the building I waited for one of the two lifts to arrive. This is usually where you realize that walking would be faster but you’ve already committed too much time to waiting and, if you were to leave, the elevator would surely be there in an instant.
So, I waited, and it came, eventually. I reached the bottom and the doors opened. I walked out into a canopy of construction. A man, to my left, had opened the wall and was working with a wrench. A co-worker passed him a crumpled diagram. There were sparks, exposed wires, an old thermos, lots of white dust. I turned as I approached the main entrance to view the “site” and there was a sign on the wall above the workers that said, “Elevator Modernization Process.” I thought “Don't they shut down the elevators when they work on them?” “Were Benny & Son having coffee while I was descending down five flights?” What would have happened if they jerked suddenly, spilling coffee on exposed wires, and I ended up in the basement looking like a human pancake?
From now on I will walk between floors at 645 Fort St. and I'll only ride the elevators in shinny new buildings, their zippy silver space pods transporting me tot the legal heavens.
Email #22:
One of the most amusing parts of the job is when people come in our front door looking for Mulligan Tam Pearson, the law firm that deals with people caught driving drunk. They are located on the third floor. The main entrance to the building is actually around the side so they come to us and ask directions. It’s always the same type of person, whether nineteen or fifty-five, male or female, well off or with a leather jacket and sweatpants. A drunk driver is a drunk driver. No hiding. It's the ultimate social nudity. They’re mostly people in a hurry, drooling- yes, I have seen it-, slightly disheveled, and, more often than not, clutching a page of the phone book. We calmly instruct them to go around the side of the building to the main entrance and take the elevator to the third floor.
The irony is that Mulligan Tam Pearson throws a large summer solstice party. They rent the top floor of the building, invite all the lawyers and agents in town, and provide free booze and food. They also hire DJ’s and a rock band. It’s legendary. Everyone looks forward to it and Mulligan Tam Pearson probably make a killing defending the resulting DUI's.
Email #23:
It's late in the morning and I have walked to the courthouse. The fog refuses to lift. A couple, gruff and wet, argue on the damp courthouse steps. She has thick blonde curly hair, accentuated by buckteeth. Her jacket is three sizes too large and she wears black jeans. She’s smoking quickly, methodically. He’s dressed for construction and a faded Boston Red Sox hat presses low against his nose. He’s squatting on the arches of his feet, head in hands, rocking. She says, “I'm nearly twenty-two, Jason, Christ, you're almost fourteen years older than me. Get your act together.” I open the court door thinking about how heavy the box I’m carrying is.
Email #24:
Josef is the oldest person at Dyke and Howard. He’s actually pretty much useless. He slithers into work around eleven, picks up some work, and drives around all day dropping it off. It's a good job to coast out a career on: low stress, quiet, time to oneself, all the CBC you could ever want. But for whatever reason he keeps screwing it up, like this morning when he accidentally served child-custody papers to the wrong person. Betty McLeod, at home with her child, answered the door to a package ordering her to give up her two-year-old son. I can only imagine the confusion that ensued until Mrs. McLeod realized that documents were for her neighbour.
A few weeks back, while delivering some documents, Josef decided that an accompanying letter, addressed to the CEO of a company, wasn't important. The undelivered, vital letter meant that a three million dollar deal for a duck farm collapsed.
I hope Josef has a wonderful pension package.
Email #25:
Recently, people have made comments about my voice. At the Land Title Office last week, while at the intercom where I say “Dyke and Howard here,” slightly bent over like I'm drinking out of a water fountain, someone came out from the storage vault and said, “The women in the back think you have a really sexy voice.” First thing this morning, while answering phones, some lady said, “With a voice like yours, you should be a television news anchor.”
And then, a few moments ago, a friend of Linda called. After I put the call through to Linda, and after she had a fifteen-minute conversation about lawnmowers on sale at Wall-Mart, she slid over in her chair and said, “Barbara wants to know if your body is as hot as your voice.”
Right now I’m looking in the yellow pages for voice-over agents.
Email #26:
Now I have done it. I have gone and become a certified secretary. I didn't take a course or go to school, or become someone's apprentice. I did this on my own. There is no turning back and there were witnesses.
I answered the phone probably the best I’ve ever answered a phone at Dyke and Howard. It wasn't for me. So, I pressed the hold button, my Telephone Technique in full flight, and looked around for Bella. She was not in her office, by the copier, or at the supplies cupboard. I tried to think like her: “If I were Bella, where would I be right now?” And then there she was striding across the floor. I put the phone to my shoulder, right hand over the speaker- even though it was on hold- and said, “Bella.” And then I synched it, I solidified my position as a professional, a “career man.” I mouthed, in slow motion, and with all the business sincerity I could muster, “phone call.” I transferred the call and hung up.
It was like the moment a boy realizes he is a man, or some other type of epiphany regarded as a pivotal landmark in one’s life.
Email #27:
I won a hundred and sixty dollars in the Survivor office pool. The guy I was randomly selected was the winner; named Kwon, I think. I’ve never watched the show before. Everyone thinks it’s a terrible injustice that I’m the “Survivor Office Champion.” They all watch the show regularly, talking endlessly about it the morning after it airs. I guess it’s kind of like the guy who wins the lottery the first time he plays while you’ve been playing the same numbers for thirty years. Oh well, sometimes goes like that.
Email #28:
I quit today. A phone call was forwarded to my desk. It was the lady who interviewed me at the Ministry of Forests- I’ve been firing out resumes for months. She offered me the position of Records Clerk. I accepted before she finished speaking. My tasks will include putting stickers on file folders and stacking boxes in underground bunkers. I think it’s great that I’ll be working for the forests of the province and manipulating paper products all day long.
After the call I went to Bella’s office to deliver the news. I could barely hold back my tears of joy. I used some of my Survivor winnings from the other day to buy a couple of tacos for lunch. Success never tasted so good.
Email #29:
Today was my last day. I gave Dyke and Howard four days notice. Sandy, my new supervisor, had been hassling me since Monday, saying that I owed her for the job reference she gave me. I kept telling her I owed her nothing. This is the same woman that tried to cut my hair when I wasn’t looking because she thought I would look more professional with shorter bangs. Besides non-consensual hair-trimming being a dangerous activity, Sandy is a tragic supporter of eighties fashion and I believe it was her intention to give me a mullet. I hate Sandy. A lot. And I’m still surprised as to why she gave me a reference, and, for that matter, why I asked her for one.
On my afternoon trip to the Seaplane terminal I told the girls there that it was my last day. They seemed genuinely upset that I was leaving. The girl in charge, Cecily, decided it would be nice to give me a return flight to Vancouver as a parting gift. I worked two and half years at Dyke and Howard and my parting gift from them was a pen and a card signed by my co-workers. The card contained such heartfelt and meaningful lines as, “Best of luck, Bill!” and “It sure was great working with ya!” The people I see at the Seaplane Terminal for an average of ten minutes a day gave me the gift of flight and I don’t even work there. I’m not bitter.
I couldn’t wait for the end of the day so I decided to leave. What were they going to do, fire me? That’s what I said to Trish on the way out. There was no long goodbye. I just got up and left. It was quite warm out. I walked back down to the Seaplane terminal, hopped on the four forty-five, and flew off to the next life.
Thank you for reading. Confessions of an Office Boy is now closed.
William Farrant
Email #21:
I will never ride the elevator at 645 Fort St. again. The building is old, splashed with character, charming, with tall ceilings, a rustic smell, and wicked architectural nuances. And the elevators, I am certain, are manually pulled between floors by minimum wage workers named Paulo and Cedric.
I take the elevator because I have to go to Noble Young Virgin on the fifth floor, but today’s experience changed that. At the North end of the building I waited for one of the two lifts to arrive. This is usually where you realize that walking would be faster but you’ve already committed too much time to waiting and, if you were to leave, the elevator would surely be there in an instant.
So, I waited, and it came, eventually. I reached the bottom and the doors opened. I walked out into a canopy of construction. A man, to my left, had opened the wall and was working with a wrench. A co-worker passed him a crumpled diagram. There were sparks, exposed wires, an old thermos, lots of white dust. I turned as I approached the main entrance to view the “site” and there was a sign on the wall above the workers that said, “Elevator Modernization Process.” I thought “Don't they shut down the elevators when they work on them?” “Were Benny & Son having coffee while I was descending down five flights?” What would have happened if they jerked suddenly, spilling coffee on exposed wires, and I ended up in the basement looking like a human pancake?
From now on I will walk between floors at 645 Fort St. and I'll only ride the elevators in shinny new buildings, their zippy silver space pods transporting me tot the legal heavens.
Email #22:
One of the most amusing parts of the job is when people come in our front door looking for Mulligan Tam Pearson, the law firm that deals with people caught driving drunk. They are located on the third floor. The main entrance to the building is actually around the side so they come to us and ask directions. It’s always the same type of person, whether nineteen or fifty-five, male or female, well off or with a leather jacket and sweatpants. A drunk driver is a drunk driver. No hiding. It's the ultimate social nudity. They’re mostly people in a hurry, drooling- yes, I have seen it-, slightly disheveled, and, more often than not, clutching a page of the phone book. We calmly instruct them to go around the side of the building to the main entrance and take the elevator to the third floor.
The irony is that Mulligan Tam Pearson throws a large summer solstice party. They rent the top floor of the building, invite all the lawyers and agents in town, and provide free booze and food. They also hire DJ’s and a rock band. It’s legendary. Everyone looks forward to it and Mulligan Tam Pearson probably make a killing defending the resulting DUI's.
Email #23:
It's late in the morning and I have walked to the courthouse. The fog refuses to lift. A couple, gruff and wet, argue on the damp courthouse steps. She has thick blonde curly hair, accentuated by buckteeth. Her jacket is three sizes too large and she wears black jeans. She’s smoking quickly, methodically. He’s dressed for construction and a faded Boston Red Sox hat presses low against his nose. He’s squatting on the arches of his feet, head in hands, rocking. She says, “I'm nearly twenty-two, Jason, Christ, you're almost fourteen years older than me. Get your act together.” I open the court door thinking about how heavy the box I’m carrying is.
Email #24:
Josef is the oldest person at Dyke and Howard. He’s actually pretty much useless. He slithers into work around eleven, picks up some work, and drives around all day dropping it off. It's a good job to coast out a career on: low stress, quiet, time to oneself, all the CBC you could ever want. But for whatever reason he keeps screwing it up, like this morning when he accidentally served child-custody papers to the wrong person. Betty McLeod, at home with her child, answered the door to a package ordering her to give up her two-year-old son. I can only imagine the confusion that ensued until Mrs. McLeod realized that documents were for her neighbour.
A few weeks back, while delivering some documents, Josef decided that an accompanying letter, addressed to the CEO of a company, wasn't important. The undelivered, vital letter meant that a three million dollar deal for a duck farm collapsed.
I hope Josef has a wonderful pension package.
Email #25:
Recently, people have made comments about my voice. At the Land Title Office last week, while at the intercom where I say “Dyke and Howard here,” slightly bent over like I'm drinking out of a water fountain, someone came out from the storage vault and said, “The women in the back think you have a really sexy voice.” First thing this morning, while answering phones, some lady said, “With a voice like yours, you should be a television news anchor.”
And then, a few moments ago, a friend of Linda called. After I put the call through to Linda, and after she had a fifteen-minute conversation about lawnmowers on sale at Wall-Mart, she slid over in her chair and said, “Barbara wants to know if your body is as hot as your voice.”
Right now I’m looking in the yellow pages for voice-over agents.
Email #26:
Now I have done it. I have gone and become a certified secretary. I didn't take a course or go to school, or become someone's apprentice. I did this on my own. There is no turning back and there were witnesses.
I answered the phone probably the best I’ve ever answered a phone at Dyke and Howard. It wasn't for me. So, I pressed the hold button, my Telephone Technique in full flight, and looked around for Bella. She was not in her office, by the copier, or at the supplies cupboard. I tried to think like her: “If I were Bella, where would I be right now?” And then there she was striding across the floor. I put the phone to my shoulder, right hand over the speaker- even though it was on hold- and said, “Bella.” And then I synched it, I solidified my position as a professional, a “career man.” I mouthed, in slow motion, and with all the business sincerity I could muster, “phone call.” I transferred the call and hung up.
It was like the moment a boy realizes he is a man, or some other type of epiphany regarded as a pivotal landmark in one’s life.
Email #27:
I won a hundred and sixty dollars in the Survivor office pool. The guy I was randomly selected was the winner; named Kwon, I think. I’ve never watched the show before. Everyone thinks it’s a terrible injustice that I’m the “Survivor Office Champion.” They all watch the show regularly, talking endlessly about it the morning after it airs. I guess it’s kind of like the guy who wins the lottery the first time he plays while you’ve been playing the same numbers for thirty years. Oh well, sometimes goes like that.
Email #28:
I quit today. A phone call was forwarded to my desk. It was the lady who interviewed me at the Ministry of Forests- I’ve been firing out resumes for months. She offered me the position of Records Clerk. I accepted before she finished speaking. My tasks will include putting stickers on file folders and stacking boxes in underground bunkers. I think it’s great that I’ll be working for the forests of the province and manipulating paper products all day long.
After the call I went to Bella’s office to deliver the news. I could barely hold back my tears of joy. I used some of my Survivor winnings from the other day to buy a couple of tacos for lunch. Success never tasted so good.
Email #29:
Today was my last day. I gave Dyke and Howard four days notice. Sandy, my new supervisor, had been hassling me since Monday, saying that I owed her for the job reference she gave me. I kept telling her I owed her nothing. This is the same woman that tried to cut my hair when I wasn’t looking because she thought I would look more professional with shorter bangs. Besides non-consensual hair-trimming being a dangerous activity, Sandy is a tragic supporter of eighties fashion and I believe it was her intention to give me a mullet. I hate Sandy. A lot. And I’m still surprised as to why she gave me a reference, and, for that matter, why I asked her for one.
On my afternoon trip to the Seaplane terminal I told the girls there that it was my last day. They seemed genuinely upset that I was leaving. The girl in charge, Cecily, decided it would be nice to give me a return flight to Vancouver as a parting gift. I worked two and half years at Dyke and Howard and my parting gift from them was a pen and a card signed by my co-workers. The card contained such heartfelt and meaningful lines as, “Best of luck, Bill!” and “It sure was great working with ya!” The people I see at the Seaplane Terminal for an average of ten minutes a day gave me the gift of flight and I don’t even work there. I’m not bitter.
I couldn’t wait for the end of the day so I decided to leave. What were they going to do, fire me? That’s what I said to Trish on the way out. There was no long goodbye. I just got up and left. It was quite warm out. I walked back down to the Seaplane terminal, hopped on the four forty-five, and flew off to the next life.
Thank you for reading. Confessions of an Office Boy is now closed.
William Farrant
Confessions of an Office Boy 4 of 5
For a few years in my "mid to late twenties" I worked at a Legal Services company. Frequently, I emailed little quips and blurbs about my job to my mother. She kept them all. Many years after when I decided to start writing I put a bunch of them together in the hopes of making a story. I cleaned them up, adding bits here and there, but I could never quite make them into anything I felt "publishable." The writing style and tone were fine at the time, but changing them to any sort of "literary standard" drastically lost the sincerity in which they were written. So, I gave up on them... until now!!! I hate that I just did that, said "until now" prefaced by an ellipsis. Anyway, I'm going to "release" what I had put together on Facebook and on my shitty blog that I pay no attention to. This is "Episode 4 of 5" of Confessions of an Office Boy.
Email #20:
Holy ####!
At quarter after one I go to the bathroom to rip a deuce. It’s been like clockwork since I started eating bran flakes for breakfast.
The timing itself is great. I have a twenty-minute window before I go to the Seaplane Terminal to pick up the office’s work. It’s usually a dead period where I often try and act busy by looking through my file folders, walking over to the office supply cupboard, or reading my Supreme Court Rules book- which is an impressive feet and makes me look dedicated to the cause. However, these diversions had been getting repetitive and I feared that one day I might make them a little too obvious.
Diversions worked for Dad at the Hamilton steel plant in the sixties when he would carry a piece of steel from one end of the factory to the other all day long. Effective in an environment of a thousand people, but in my office there are only sixteen, and, soon enough, someone would have noticed I had eighty-four packs of Post-it notes. But the bran-flake-induced-regularity was the perfect excuse to disappear for twenty minutes.
The only person who likely knew where I was going for so long was Angela, who sits by the back door where the washroom key is. But she’s probably aware of everybody's “schedule.” The new ritual had been working fine, but I started getting nervous about it because the first floor bathroom supplies the needs of four offices, and, frequently, I could hear someone coming down the hall jiggling keys, and then try to open the bathroom door. This caused a lot of panic, a rushed job. It ruined the experience. And it mortified me that the person waiting in the hall would know who it was when I came out.
There was a breakthrough about two weeks ago, when, on my pilgrimage, I saw John from my office heading into the toilet. I had heard stories about John. He was known to go in there with a coffee and a novel and surface after forty minutes. Sometimes he would take his whole lunch break in there.
But that day I really had to go and I had the “timeline” to stick to. I went back to the office and found the spare key in Marsha's desk, fully prepared to use the ladies toilet. Risky, but the situation demanded it. Sandra saw me going for the spare key and mentioned that sometimes she used the toilet on the second floor if the ladies toilet was occupied; as an evasive maneuver, to deflect my intentions, I told her how badly I needed to pee, and, while doing so, adopted the choreographed pee-dance shuffle.
The second floor key was also in Marsha’s desk according to Sandra. So, I raced down the hall and up the elevator to the second floor bathroom. And what a shrine it was! The key opened a gold coloured door and in front of me was about a hundred square feet of lavatory bliss: a urinal, scented soaps, two stalls, paintings of tulips, and dried lavender in a vase on a corner table. An added bonus was that the main door had multiple locks but just the one key, and the only office on the second floor was currently vacant. So you could lock it behind you and leave the stall door open if you wanted, and away you’d go- it was like taking all your clothes off when nobody was home. Not a care in the world. It was a special place that was mine for as long as I wanted it. Every day.
Of course, it’s when you get too comfortable with routines that they fall apart; you leave things to the last minute, don't plan in advance. And this is what happened today. I rode up the elevator in a confident fashion, at the desired time, only to find the second floor bathroom door wide open with sawdust covering the rose paneled floor. Construction.
I panicked and raced down the stairs- no time to wait for the elevator. I opened the back door to the office and reached my hand around to the wall and grabbed the first floor bathroom key. In a flash I was back down the hall, rounding the corner, and into the first floor toilet. I closed the door and sat down.
I guess I was so relieved at making it safely that I suddenly didn't feel the need to go right away. I looked in my pockets for some reading material. I was analyzing a receipt from the grocery store, intent on figuring out how the taxes work on food, when I realized I was peeing up and on to the wall. In the excitement I half stood up to wipe the wall with the receipt. And then it happened: I was half standing with my pants around my ankles having created a neat little hammock for what should have been in the toilet.
I remember as a child sitting in a box in the bathroom. I was four. I had to go. Dad and Uncle Rick were watching a football game in the living room. It must have been an important game, meaning there was money on the line, because when I asked for assistance, they told me to get off my ass and do it myself. To the best of my knowledge I was trained. I didn't get up, and, instead, just sat there beside the toilet in my steaming hot pants until the game ended. I heard a few cheers and a couple of high fives. Then Dad came in to use the toilet, and when he saw me, and smelt me, he lost it. Words to the effect of “What the fuck is wrong with you?” filled the room. In retrospect it must have been really funny for him, and I'm sure he told the story endlessly to the contractors and tradesmen at the construction sites where he worked. At least that’s what I tell myself.
However, this was now: an adult in an office-building bathroom that had shit his pants. No one would ever treat me the same. They would laugh at me moments after they said hello and I was out of earshot. I would have to quit my job. A reference was out of the question: “He's a good worker but sometimes he shits his pants.” It was serious. The type of critical thinking required was not taught in university, let alone anywhere. I had no idea how I would get out of the mess I was in, literally. It felt like I was at the beginning of a really difficult video game: you start the level in a bathroom; you have crapped your pants. Your mission: get back to your desk clean and safe with the office’s work. You have no weapons.
And then it all came together. I had the company car key in my back pocket. People were waiting for me to get back from the Seaplane Terminal with work. I lived five minutes away. There was a way out that didn't involve going through the office. I moved quickly. I cleaned my pants to the best of my ability. I flushed, washed my hands, and ran out of the building- I left the first floor key in the bathroom; that sometimes happens. Someone might see me walk past the office on the way to the car. This was good. They’d see me doing my job. Nothing would appear out of the ordinary. I checked my phone. It was twenty-two after one. The plane landed at one-thirty. It takes fifteen minutes to taxi into the terminal. Another ten minutes to unload the plane. I had thirty-three minutes. I could say the plane was late, that they were slow unloading. Another ten minutes.
I got in the car. My sweater was in the back. I could sit on it. Bonus: no interior damage. I started driving home. A great song came on the radio: “Every Little Thing You Do is Magic” by the Police. I got all green lights. Into the house and my roommates weren't there. Perfect. I went to the laundry machine. I took off my pants. Added soap. Pressed go. Check point one cleared. Upstairs. I found new pants and new underwear. I went to the bathroom. Quick shower. There was twenty minutes left until I probably got a phone call about my whereabouts. Out of the shower. Changed. I used extra deodorant just in case. I hopped back in the car and drove quickly to the Seaplane Terminal. I signed for the bag. Back to work ahead of schedule. I dropped off the bag and sat at my desk. Mission completed.
Later, Cindy asked if I had being wearing the same pants all day. I said I had. She looked at me funny. I smiled. I looked down. I was wearing my wife's jeans. They were a tight fit. I acted cool. I bought a lottery ticket on the way home from work.
William Farrant
Email #20:
Holy ####!
At quarter after one I go to the bathroom to rip a deuce. It’s been like clockwork since I started eating bran flakes for breakfast.
The timing itself is great. I have a twenty-minute window before I go to the Seaplane Terminal to pick up the office’s work. It’s usually a dead period where I often try and act busy by looking through my file folders, walking over to the office supply cupboard, or reading my Supreme Court Rules book- which is an impressive feet and makes me look dedicated to the cause. However, these diversions had been getting repetitive and I feared that one day I might make them a little too obvious.
Diversions worked for Dad at the Hamilton steel plant in the sixties when he would carry a piece of steel from one end of the factory to the other all day long. Effective in an environment of a thousand people, but in my office there are only sixteen, and, soon enough, someone would have noticed I had eighty-four packs of Post-it notes. But the bran-flake-induced-regularity was the perfect excuse to disappear for twenty minutes.
The only person who likely knew where I was going for so long was Angela, who sits by the back door where the washroom key is. But she’s probably aware of everybody's “schedule.” The new ritual had been working fine, but I started getting nervous about it because the first floor bathroom supplies the needs of four offices, and, frequently, I could hear someone coming down the hall jiggling keys, and then try to open the bathroom door. This caused a lot of panic, a rushed job. It ruined the experience. And it mortified me that the person waiting in the hall would know who it was when I came out.
There was a breakthrough about two weeks ago, when, on my pilgrimage, I saw John from my office heading into the toilet. I had heard stories about John. He was known to go in there with a coffee and a novel and surface after forty minutes. Sometimes he would take his whole lunch break in there.
But that day I really had to go and I had the “timeline” to stick to. I went back to the office and found the spare key in Marsha's desk, fully prepared to use the ladies toilet. Risky, but the situation demanded it. Sandra saw me going for the spare key and mentioned that sometimes she used the toilet on the second floor if the ladies toilet was occupied; as an evasive maneuver, to deflect my intentions, I told her how badly I needed to pee, and, while doing so, adopted the choreographed pee-dance shuffle.
The second floor key was also in Marsha’s desk according to Sandra. So, I raced down the hall and up the elevator to the second floor bathroom. And what a shrine it was! The key opened a gold coloured door and in front of me was about a hundred square feet of lavatory bliss: a urinal, scented soaps, two stalls, paintings of tulips, and dried lavender in a vase on a corner table. An added bonus was that the main door had multiple locks but just the one key, and the only office on the second floor was currently vacant. So you could lock it behind you and leave the stall door open if you wanted, and away you’d go- it was like taking all your clothes off when nobody was home. Not a care in the world. It was a special place that was mine for as long as I wanted it. Every day.
Of course, it’s when you get too comfortable with routines that they fall apart; you leave things to the last minute, don't plan in advance. And this is what happened today. I rode up the elevator in a confident fashion, at the desired time, only to find the second floor bathroom door wide open with sawdust covering the rose paneled floor. Construction.
I panicked and raced down the stairs- no time to wait for the elevator. I opened the back door to the office and reached my hand around to the wall and grabbed the first floor bathroom key. In a flash I was back down the hall, rounding the corner, and into the first floor toilet. I closed the door and sat down.
I guess I was so relieved at making it safely that I suddenly didn't feel the need to go right away. I looked in my pockets for some reading material. I was analyzing a receipt from the grocery store, intent on figuring out how the taxes work on food, when I realized I was peeing up and on to the wall. In the excitement I half stood up to wipe the wall with the receipt. And then it happened: I was half standing with my pants around my ankles having created a neat little hammock for what should have been in the toilet.
I remember as a child sitting in a box in the bathroom. I was four. I had to go. Dad and Uncle Rick were watching a football game in the living room. It must have been an important game, meaning there was money on the line, because when I asked for assistance, they told me to get off my ass and do it myself. To the best of my knowledge I was trained. I didn't get up, and, instead, just sat there beside the toilet in my steaming hot pants until the game ended. I heard a few cheers and a couple of high fives. Then Dad came in to use the toilet, and when he saw me, and smelt me, he lost it. Words to the effect of “What the fuck is wrong with you?” filled the room. In retrospect it must have been really funny for him, and I'm sure he told the story endlessly to the contractors and tradesmen at the construction sites where he worked. At least that’s what I tell myself.
However, this was now: an adult in an office-building bathroom that had shit his pants. No one would ever treat me the same. They would laugh at me moments after they said hello and I was out of earshot. I would have to quit my job. A reference was out of the question: “He's a good worker but sometimes he shits his pants.” It was serious. The type of critical thinking required was not taught in university, let alone anywhere. I had no idea how I would get out of the mess I was in, literally. It felt like I was at the beginning of a really difficult video game: you start the level in a bathroom; you have crapped your pants. Your mission: get back to your desk clean and safe with the office’s work. You have no weapons.
And then it all came together. I had the company car key in my back pocket. People were waiting for me to get back from the Seaplane Terminal with work. I lived five minutes away. There was a way out that didn't involve going through the office. I moved quickly. I cleaned my pants to the best of my ability. I flushed, washed my hands, and ran out of the building- I left the first floor key in the bathroom; that sometimes happens. Someone might see me walk past the office on the way to the car. This was good. They’d see me doing my job. Nothing would appear out of the ordinary. I checked my phone. It was twenty-two after one. The plane landed at one-thirty. It takes fifteen minutes to taxi into the terminal. Another ten minutes to unload the plane. I had thirty-three minutes. I could say the plane was late, that they were slow unloading. Another ten minutes.
I got in the car. My sweater was in the back. I could sit on it. Bonus: no interior damage. I started driving home. A great song came on the radio: “Every Little Thing You Do is Magic” by the Police. I got all green lights. Into the house and my roommates weren't there. Perfect. I went to the laundry machine. I took off my pants. Added soap. Pressed go. Check point one cleared. Upstairs. I found new pants and new underwear. I went to the bathroom. Quick shower. There was twenty minutes left until I probably got a phone call about my whereabouts. Out of the shower. Changed. I used extra deodorant just in case. I hopped back in the car and drove quickly to the Seaplane Terminal. I signed for the bag. Back to work ahead of schedule. I dropped off the bag and sat at my desk. Mission completed.
Later, Cindy asked if I had being wearing the same pants all day. I said I had. She looked at me funny. I smiled. I looked down. I was wearing my wife's jeans. They were a tight fit. I acted cool. I bought a lottery ticket on the way home from work.
William Farrant
Confessions of an Office Boy 3 of 5
For a few years in my "mid to late twenties" I worked at a Legal Services company. Frequently, I emailed little quips and blurbs about my job to my mother. She kept them all. Many years after when I decided to start writing I put a bunch of them together in the hopes of making a story. I cleaned them up, adding bits here and there, but I could never quite make them into anything I felt "publishable." The writing style and tone were fine at the time, but changing them to any sort of "literary standard" drastically lost the sincerity in which they were written. So, I gave up on them... until now!!! I hate that I just did that, said "until now" prefaced by an ellipsis. Anyway, I'm going to "release" what I had put together on Facebook and on my shitty blog that I pay no attention to. This is "Episode 3 of 5" of Confessions of an Office Boy.
Confession of an Office Boy 3 of 5
Email #13:
There is a certain technique to answering the office phone that if done correctly will make you look like a serious individual who has a lot of clout. When the phone rings take a second to think about it; rushing to answer is a sign of weakness. When you finally decide to pick it up, gently pick up the receiver looking left and right. Never look straight ahead at the phone, or at the computer. This shows incompetence. Next, after slowly rolling your eyes and neck, nonchalantly state who you are and the company name. Then, look at a coworker with a face that says, “I could do this in my sleep.” Put the call through to whatever department it needs to go to. And now, this is key, don't just hang up the phone. Continue looking in other directions and let your phone-talking hand go limp. Relaxed, you can slide the phone into its saddle. Make sure to use a nice forward motion at low speed with a subtle release. This whole process looks even better if you do it standing up.
Email #14:
Shelley is fifty and can't figure out the scanner. For some people change is tough and I fear that when everything switches to electronic filing she'll be forced into early retirement. I wonder why she doesn't just get with the times. Scanning is even easier than the old way, which was the typewriter.
I really enjoy it when she scans things sideways and they come out in a foreign language or that Wingdings font.
Email #15:
Harold, the president of the company, came in today. We were told to dress nice for the occasion. I wore my Safe Injection Site t-shirt. He comes every six months or so to give us the financial details of the company, promising that the salary-freeze is “nearly over.” He just does this to lift our spirits, to keep us hoping. He started patting himself on the back for his decision to make our office an open-planned one, saying it’s increased productivity.
I’d rather stare at the blank wall of a cubicle. Instead, I have to look at Sandra’s face- the backs of our computer monitors touch. It’s way to close. If I gaze off into space she’ll start talking to me about the difficulties of being single, how “she’ll just stay home and watch CSI Miami by herself”, that one day she’ll move up to Power River and run a scuba shop. Add in the banks of buzzing fluorescent lights and the complete lack of windows in the office and it’s enough to give you a migraine. I often feel like I’m in an asylum for the corporately challenged.
Email #16:
I don’t think the girl at Copy Print likes me. I go there to have poorly put together Affidavits re-bound. She is cold and non-receptive to my requests. She always seems to find something wrong with the way I ask for service. I've become quite nervous about the whole thing. Will I stutter when I say, “quarter-inch depth,” “clear-ply,” or “translucent cover?” Am I standing strangely, have bad hair? Am I ugly? Her lack of anything frightens me. She'll start the work, which takes all of three minutes, in such a forceful, robotic way that she makes me feel guilty for being there. On the plus side, I think she is the only person who actually thinks I’m a lawyer, and, because of this, I try to walk with calculated ease when I leave.
Email #17:
A client phoned and asked me to photocopy an entire court file. This is usually an easy job. It’s never a problem. I consider it my bread and butter. However, the file requested contained five boxes of documents. The court charges one dollar per page. There were one thousand one hundred and sixteen pages in the file. My hourly rate includes notarizing the documents and stapling them together, or finding clips if they are too thick for staples, or elastics if they are too thick for clips, and rope if too big for elastics, and really thick re-enforced rebar cages if too strong for rope, and carefully escorted armoured trucks if too important for re-enforced rebar cages, and Governmental protection agencies, created and disbanded for the sole purpose of transporting court documents if carefully escorted armoured trucks are not available.
I told the client the file was sealed.
Email #18:
I can't fax. I try. I double, triple check the numbers. I punch them in slowly. I watch the paper slide through the machine. Nine times out of ten someone brings me a piece of paper that says my fax did not go through. It’s a scar on my job performance. I keep blaming the other side's fax machine but one day someone will discover my “ dark secret” and make a complaint and then I won’t get that thirty-five cent raise I’m due for in three years.
Email #19:
Stephanie has come back to Dyke & Howard. She spent four months working at another firm that didn't pay as well and was led by a lunatic who insisted that she come in forty-five minutes early for work to turn on the lights and make coffee while not being paid.
Stephanie left that firm and began working part-time on-call cleaning the elderly. The money was good, she says, but geriatrics only needed cleaning twice a week.
Stephanie lives with her Latin lover, Carlos. His chimney sweeping business is on hard times, she says. The modern age of gas and electric fireplaces have limited his business opportunities. They plan on having children in the next few years and recently financed a new car.
Stephanie has previous experience in Showing up on Time, Keeping Her Mouth Shut When a Customer Makes a Bigoted Statement, and Ignoring the Fact You Chew on Your Pen All Day. She is a recent graduate from the School of Why Am I Here, What Did I Do Wrong?
William Farrant
Confession of an Office Boy 3 of 5
Email #13:
There is a certain technique to answering the office phone that if done correctly will make you look like a serious individual who has a lot of clout. When the phone rings take a second to think about it; rushing to answer is a sign of weakness. When you finally decide to pick it up, gently pick up the receiver looking left and right. Never look straight ahead at the phone, or at the computer. This shows incompetence. Next, after slowly rolling your eyes and neck, nonchalantly state who you are and the company name. Then, look at a coworker with a face that says, “I could do this in my sleep.” Put the call through to whatever department it needs to go to. And now, this is key, don't just hang up the phone. Continue looking in other directions and let your phone-talking hand go limp. Relaxed, you can slide the phone into its saddle. Make sure to use a nice forward motion at low speed with a subtle release. This whole process looks even better if you do it standing up.
Email #14:
Shelley is fifty and can't figure out the scanner. For some people change is tough and I fear that when everything switches to electronic filing she'll be forced into early retirement. I wonder why she doesn't just get with the times. Scanning is even easier than the old way, which was the typewriter.
I really enjoy it when she scans things sideways and they come out in a foreign language or that Wingdings font.
Email #15:
Harold, the president of the company, came in today. We were told to dress nice for the occasion. I wore my Safe Injection Site t-shirt. He comes every six months or so to give us the financial details of the company, promising that the salary-freeze is “nearly over.” He just does this to lift our spirits, to keep us hoping. He started patting himself on the back for his decision to make our office an open-planned one, saying it’s increased productivity.
I’d rather stare at the blank wall of a cubicle. Instead, I have to look at Sandra’s face- the backs of our computer monitors touch. It’s way to close. If I gaze off into space she’ll start talking to me about the difficulties of being single, how “she’ll just stay home and watch CSI Miami by herself”, that one day she’ll move up to Power River and run a scuba shop. Add in the banks of buzzing fluorescent lights and the complete lack of windows in the office and it’s enough to give you a migraine. I often feel like I’m in an asylum for the corporately challenged.
Email #16:
I don’t think the girl at Copy Print likes me. I go there to have poorly put together Affidavits re-bound. She is cold and non-receptive to my requests. She always seems to find something wrong with the way I ask for service. I've become quite nervous about the whole thing. Will I stutter when I say, “quarter-inch depth,” “clear-ply,” or “translucent cover?” Am I standing strangely, have bad hair? Am I ugly? Her lack of anything frightens me. She'll start the work, which takes all of three minutes, in such a forceful, robotic way that she makes me feel guilty for being there. On the plus side, I think she is the only person who actually thinks I’m a lawyer, and, because of this, I try to walk with calculated ease when I leave.
Email #17:
A client phoned and asked me to photocopy an entire court file. This is usually an easy job. It’s never a problem. I consider it my bread and butter. However, the file requested contained five boxes of documents. The court charges one dollar per page. There were one thousand one hundred and sixteen pages in the file. My hourly rate includes notarizing the documents and stapling them together, or finding clips if they are too thick for staples, or elastics if they are too thick for clips, and rope if too big for elastics, and really thick re-enforced rebar cages if too strong for rope, and carefully escorted armoured trucks if too important for re-enforced rebar cages, and Governmental protection agencies, created and disbanded for the sole purpose of transporting court documents if carefully escorted armoured trucks are not available.
I told the client the file was sealed.
Email #18:
I can't fax. I try. I double, triple check the numbers. I punch them in slowly. I watch the paper slide through the machine. Nine times out of ten someone brings me a piece of paper that says my fax did not go through. It’s a scar on my job performance. I keep blaming the other side's fax machine but one day someone will discover my “ dark secret” and make a complaint and then I won’t get that thirty-five cent raise I’m due for in three years.
Email #19:
Stephanie has come back to Dyke & Howard. She spent four months working at another firm that didn't pay as well and was led by a lunatic who insisted that she come in forty-five minutes early for work to turn on the lights and make coffee while not being paid.
Stephanie left that firm and began working part-time on-call cleaning the elderly. The money was good, she says, but geriatrics only needed cleaning twice a week.
Stephanie lives with her Latin lover, Carlos. His chimney sweeping business is on hard times, she says. The modern age of gas and electric fireplaces have limited his business opportunities. They plan on having children in the next few years and recently financed a new car.
Stephanie has previous experience in Showing up on Time, Keeping Her Mouth Shut When a Customer Makes a Bigoted Statement, and Ignoring the Fact You Chew on Your Pen All Day. She is a recent graduate from the School of Why Am I Here, What Did I Do Wrong?
William Farrant
Monday, October 24, 2011
New Work!!!
I forgot about my shitty blog that I pay no attention to. Today I've made some updates. Follow the link below to my essay entitled "We Can't All Be Gods" at The Montreal Review:
http://www.themontrealreview.com/fiction-and-poetry.php
http://www.themontrealreview.com/fiction-and-poetry.php
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