Last June, you might recall I moved to the 4th floor of CheeseGov HQ. We had a summer intern starting, and the Powers That Be wanted us to have a dedicated spot where we could collaborate, so they granted us a temporary reprieve from the hoteling concept we’d been forced into five months earlier due to space consolidation efforts.
This was a huge relief, because playing musical chairs kinda sucked. Every time I walked through the door, my pulse quickened, knowing I’d be on the hunt for an open desk in which to park for the day. This shouldn’t have caused any stress–it’s not like I ever found myself stuck in a bathroom stall with a laptop perched on my knees because I couldn’t find an empty workspace–but I’m a planner. I like to map things out. Not knowing where I’d be working every day wreaked havoc with my mental wellbeing.
Suddenly, I had my own reserved cubicle again, with a nameplate and everything. Even better? It was in a highly coveted, nearly deserted section of the building. A corner space with a window even. When our intern arrived, he filled his cube with photos and personal mementoes, but I never bothered. I figured I’d be there three months tops, so what was the point?
Well, three months turned into four, four months into five, and our intern was still there. He’d already graduated from college, so we were able to extend his stay much longer than anticipated. By the time he left it was November, and I was still in my cozy little 4th-floor nook. And then my coworker, Randy, got a promotion, so we needed to fill his position. With a new internal communications specialist starting on December 1, my boss again wanted us all to sit together while she learns the ropes. This led to some kind of secret handshake deal with senior leadership; they are turning a blind eye and conveniently “forgetting” we have taken up residence on the 4th floor. Out of sight, out of mind has its advantages!
The first thing I did upon hearing this news? A freakin’ backflip. It was amazing. I’m more limber than I thought! Neil in accounting held up a sheet of paper with 7.8 scrawled in black Sharpie. I would have scored even higher but he deducted points for a bent knee upon landing.
The second thing I did? Added a little personal flair to my cubicle since it appears I’ll be there indefinitely.
OK, it’s not much–just a handful of photos and a succulent which I will probably kill because Tara is the one with the green thumb in this family and a desktop mini fridge stocked with Spindrifts–but at least it finally feels like mine. For two days a week, anyway.
And not even two days this week. We had a storm move in last night that brought, in order:
- Snow
- Rain
- Freezing rain
- Snow
Geez Mother Nature, make up your mind!
Wary of the forecast, my boss encouraged us to feel free to work from home today in order to avoid potentially treacherous roads. I think this was a good call.
As much as I appreciate my no-longer-temporary CheeseGov cubicle, I will always prefer working from home. I’d much rather gaze out upon the snow-covered majesty of my wintry backyard than the parking lot at work.
Check out those icicles!
What can I say? Icicles fascinate me. Whenever I see an especially impressive one, I geek out. This amuses Tara to no end. We’ll be driving along in the car, I’ll spot icicles hanging from a building, and an excited shout will spontaneously burst from my mouth. “OMG, wow!” I’ll yelp. “Check out those bad boys!” But when I glance at my wife, all I see are tears streaming down her face as she tries to suppress her laughter.
Clearly, Tara is not in awe of icicles the way I am.
Riddle me this, guys: how can you not find these spectacular?!
I guess Todd and Margo don’t appreciate icicles either, considering the damage a particularly gnarly one did to their high-end stereo system.
I also think icicles would make the perfect murder weapon. As sharp as those tips are, you could drive the business end through someone’s heart and they’d be dead before they hit the floor. As long as you didn’t do the killing someplace stupid, like a meat locker or the North Pole, the evidence would disappear without a trace. No weapon, no DNA, no chance of conviction. It’s pretty much the perfect crime.
One that would turn into a literal cold case.
Mark My Words 
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