This morning, the only email in my work inbox was one from my supervisor reminding the "admin staff" of our business dress code. The official title of this dress code is "conservative corporate casual."
I do not approve of the use of "casual" in its name. There is nothing casual about it. No jeans. No T-shirts. No "gym or pool" sandals. No sneakers. It is nothing like casual. Take that work out, and we've got ourselves an accurate desciption of the way we are supposed to dress here.
Now. I am painfully aware that, while this memo was sent to the entire admin staff (6 of us total), it was just a less direct way of addressing me. The other folks dress perfectly appropriately. I have been known to wear, say, scuzzy flip-flops to work (8 years old, given to me free at a luau when I was 15, probably purchased at the Rite-Aid nextdoor to my highschool). Or, on occasion, a skirt that is above my knees (I always thought the rule for decent skirt-length was a few inches longer than where your fingetips land at your sides). Sometimes, although I don't like doing it, I have shirts that have a little bit of cleavage (listen, I'm a very tiny person with very ample bosoms...do you know how hard it is for me to find clothes that fit that do not reveal a little bit of cleavage?).
All of this to say that I am not offended by the memo, I am simply annoyed that I am going to have to spend a good day this weekend shopping for more clothes that can be deemed "appropriate" for work (now that sweaters are no longer seasonally applicable). I figured since I had always dressed this way (and have now been working here for more than 7 months), it wasn't a problem. Twas not to be.
It is harder than I thought to transition from theatre major college student (who wears comfortable, slightly trendy casual clothing until it is time to get into a costume) to conservative casual professional who only gets to wear jeans on the weekend. Mostly because I loathe spending money on clothes.
On an entirely unrelated subject--I was at Game 2 of the playoff series w/the Hawks Wednesday night. In premium seats. Looking down at Bruce Willis' shiny head (have you ever heard 20,000 people yell "Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuce?" It's phenomenally similar to hearing 20,000 people yell "Yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuke"). I had a great time, and am seriously considering investing more time into watching the NBA on television as a result. I'll watch a Sox game or (more commonly) a Pats game every so often (all the time in playoffs...but during the regular season, let's face it, I've got better things to do than sit there for 4 hours), but never really considered watching the NBA before. I played basketball in high school, and really enjoy the sport, but it just never dawned on me to really pay attention to the NBA. But basketball games are quicker than baseball or football, faster-paced, and just as exciting as any other sport. Plus, I like it that we have a player who shares a name with a musical composition form (bonus points if you know who I'm talking about).
So Celtics, I think I'm going to start paying attention. Please thank my boss and his ticket raffle for your new fan. And I'm aware that Mr. Bibby would say that I'm a "fair weather fan," but a fair weather fan is better than an imaginary one.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Admin Day
As it turns out, today is National Adminstrative Assistant Day. Or something thereabouts.
Free lunch, flowers, the works. All from our pretty awesome supervisor. This is made even more marvelous by the fact that I didn't know such a day existed. Surprise free lunch and flowers. A-nice.
Also, I won Premium Club Celtics tickets for this very evening. I don't follow the NBA, but I know enough to know that this is a very big deal. And I played basketball in high school, so I'll at least be able to tell when they are blocking out. Or shooting free throws.
And left the apartment wearing my walk-to-work flip flops, carrying my at-work high heels in a bag. Turns out those high heels are from two different pairs.
So I'm spending National Adminstrative Assistant Day wearing scuzzy white flip flops. I was going to run to Marshalls on lunch break (and enjoy the fabulous weather God is giving to adminstrative assistants everywhere) and puy some appropriate pumps, but this free lunch thing is taking that time slot.
I won't complain. Scuzzy white flip flops it is. Take that, Stacey and Clinton.
Free lunch, flowers, the works. All from our pretty awesome supervisor. This is made even more marvelous by the fact that I didn't know such a day existed. Surprise free lunch and flowers. A-nice.
Also, I won Premium Club Celtics tickets for this very evening. I don't follow the NBA, but I know enough to know that this is a very big deal. And I played basketball in high school, so I'll at least be able to tell when they are blocking out. Or shooting free throws.
And left the apartment wearing my walk-to-work flip flops, carrying my at-work high heels in a bag. Turns out those high heels are from two different pairs.
So I'm spending National Adminstrative Assistant Day wearing scuzzy white flip flops. I was going to run to Marshalls on lunch break (and enjoy the fabulous weather God is giving to adminstrative assistants everywhere) and puy some appropriate pumps, but this free lunch thing is taking that time slot.
I won't complain. Scuzzy white flip flops it is. Take that, Stacey and Clinton.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
The birthday blahs
This is the second in what appears to be the beginnings of a series of unimportant birthdays.
I am twenty-three today. The age I always wanted to be when I was little. I used to write short stories where I was twenty-three and getting married to Spot Conlon from my favorite Disney film, "Newsies." At that time, he was twenty-three, so it only made sense. We would be twenty-three together and all would end well.
I don't really know whatever happened to him, but here I am. Twenty-three. And what have I done? Went to work. What will I do? Drink some tea, watch some television, and go to bed. Spot Conlon is probably somewhere in the midwest with his wife and children, doing the same thing (only with company). Hm.
I received a DVD (the Ciaran Hinds/Amando Root version of "Persuasion," a favorite of mine) in the mail, and a phone call from the sender (my cousin and best friend, Sharon). We had a chocolate fondue break in the afternoon at work to celebrate. A co-worker paid for my Boloco Bangkok burrito. And I have quite literally 20 facebook wall postings wishing me a happy birthday.
But that is all. True, I am going to leave Boston on Friday after work to spend time with my family in Maine (I haven't been since Christmas), and there will be a family party. Cake, presents, brothers making fun of each other...that will all be there. And then it will be done.
My Crohn's has been flaring of late, and my decision to eat a lunch that included a peanut sauce (a big fat no-no on my list of trigger foods) is causing me to not want to eat dinner. My PJs (albeit my favorite PJs) are already on. I have lit candles. This is it.
Last year was, hands-down, the worst birthday ever. I was discovered crying in the production office in the middle of a tech rehearsal by a cast member who I'm pretty sure has been scarred for life as a result. I don't cry in front of people, and the sight of me sobbing my little heart out in front of a giant poster of some show gone by is probably not something anybody should ever have to witness. Especially because of the result awkwardness that ensues when I try to pretend I am not crying.
There were a number of things that went wrong that day: no plans, unresolved boy drama, an unexpected tech rehearsal, Virginia Tech, rain, snow, early morning commitments, no sleep the night before--it was just a chain of very unfortunate events.
But that is all in the past. And I guess this blog should be about my present. Not presents, as it were, for I've only received one of those (which is pretty fabulous, incidentally, I have wanted to own Ciaran Hinds' Captain Wentworth for a long time now).
My present is okay. Sure, I wish my friends lived closer to me so that things could be celebrated properly. Yes, I really wish that today hadn't started with a crisis involving missing fruit salad for a board room meeting with some VIPs. Forgetting to return my DVD to the BPL today (Confetti...I recommend it) and facing a late fee is kind of annoying. And, okay, my Crohn's is quite a bother. Still. Today is supposed to be special. And I am going to make it so.
SPECIAL:
-The train was on time both ways today.
-I put effort into my appearance, and noticed that I was noticed. A lot. By men. Sometimes, an ego boost is only a blow-dry and pair of tights away.
-The weather. The weather. THE WEATHER. Sunshine on my face. Not rain, snow, clouds, wind...SUNSHINE. Heavenly.
-Free lunch. Free dessert. Actually eating all of the main food groups.
-Knowing I can go home to Maine (not technically home anymore, but so be it) soon.
-Not getting the rejection email from the call-backs I was just at yet (I guess there's still time...but...so far so good...I don't mind not getting cast, I just didn't want to be not-cast on my birthday).
It's not much, but it'll do.
I am twenty-three today. The age I always wanted to be when I was little. I used to write short stories where I was twenty-three and getting married to Spot Conlon from my favorite Disney film, "Newsies." At that time, he was twenty-three, so it only made sense. We would be twenty-three together and all would end well.
I don't really know whatever happened to him, but here I am. Twenty-three. And what have I done? Went to work. What will I do? Drink some tea, watch some television, and go to bed. Spot Conlon is probably somewhere in the midwest with his wife and children, doing the same thing (only with company). Hm.
I received a DVD (the Ciaran Hinds/Amando Root version of "Persuasion," a favorite of mine) in the mail, and a phone call from the sender (my cousin and best friend, Sharon). We had a chocolate fondue break in the afternoon at work to celebrate. A co-worker paid for my Boloco Bangkok burrito. And I have quite literally 20 facebook wall postings wishing me a happy birthday.
But that is all. True, I am going to leave Boston on Friday after work to spend time with my family in Maine (I haven't been since Christmas), and there will be a family party. Cake, presents, brothers making fun of each other...that will all be there. And then it will be done.
My Crohn's has been flaring of late, and my decision to eat a lunch that included a peanut sauce (a big fat no-no on my list of trigger foods) is causing me to not want to eat dinner. My PJs (albeit my favorite PJs) are already on. I have lit candles. This is it.
Last year was, hands-down, the worst birthday ever. I was discovered crying in the production office in the middle of a tech rehearsal by a cast member who I'm pretty sure has been scarred for life as a result. I don't cry in front of people, and the sight of me sobbing my little heart out in front of a giant poster of some show gone by is probably not something anybody should ever have to witness. Especially because of the result awkwardness that ensues when I try to pretend I am not crying.
There were a number of things that went wrong that day: no plans, unresolved boy drama, an unexpected tech rehearsal, Virginia Tech, rain, snow, early morning commitments, no sleep the night before--it was just a chain of very unfortunate events.
But that is all in the past. And I guess this blog should be about my present. Not presents, as it were, for I've only received one of those (which is pretty fabulous, incidentally, I have wanted to own Ciaran Hinds' Captain Wentworth for a long time now).
My present is okay. Sure, I wish my friends lived closer to me so that things could be celebrated properly. Yes, I really wish that today hadn't started with a crisis involving missing fruit salad for a board room meeting with some VIPs. Forgetting to return my DVD to the BPL today (Confetti...I recommend it) and facing a late fee is kind of annoying. And, okay, my Crohn's is quite a bother. Still. Today is supposed to be special. And I am going to make it so.
SPECIAL:
-The train was on time both ways today.
-I put effort into my appearance, and noticed that I was noticed. A lot. By men. Sometimes, an ego boost is only a blow-dry and pair of tights away.
-The weather. The weather. THE WEATHER. Sunshine on my face. Not rain, snow, clouds, wind...SUNSHINE. Heavenly.
-Free lunch. Free dessert. Actually eating all of the main food groups.
-Knowing I can go home to Maine (not technically home anymore, but so be it) soon.
-Not getting the rejection email from the call-backs I was just at yet (I guess there's still time...but...so far so good...I don't mind not getting cast, I just didn't want to be not-cast on my birthday).
It's not much, but it'll do.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Momo-mo, how do you like it, how do you like it..
I have been a resident of West Roxbury now for almost six months, and yet I hardly know anything about it. The problem is that I live alone, and all of my close friends live at least forty-five minutes Northwards, rendering my exploration quite solitary.
Last night, however, a very old friend who I have not seen in years came over, and we decided to throw caution into the wind and drive around searching for someplace new and exciting. Which is pretty much anywhere other than West on Centre (which had great food, but was uber-packed when I went a few months ago).
I now have my first West Roxburian restaurant recommendation. The Himalayan Bistro on Centre Street (directly across from West on Centre) was pretty much the cat's meow. Reasonable prices, great location, excellent food, really helpful waiters. It came to approximately $20/per person, and that included appetizer, main dish, and naan--PLENTY of it (the leftovers alone might be enough for two more meals). If I was just going to pick up lunch for one, it could easily be under $10. Try the momo. It's apparently unique to that restaurant, and was a completely delightful appetizer.
I hope to shock my coworkers with my leftovers. "Annie," the will say, "Where is the typical instant oatmeal and English muffin scrounged from the office kitchen?"
I am a free office food junkie. I am okay with that. It is free, after all. Quality is not as important for the noontime meal as is the dough shelled out for it. I do want to pay of my student loans eventually, after all.
Tonight I head to my alma mater to catch their Spring theatre production, "Loves Labours Lost." This is my favorite Shakespeare comedy, and I am thoroughly put out that they should do it the year after I've graduated. Still, I look forward to it, even if the hour plus drive is already stressing me out (my poor Civic is having major issues these days).
Oh, and Happy Home Opener. I'm sure I'll catch the highlights on the morning news. And on the morning train. And morningtime at the office.
Last night, however, a very old friend who I have not seen in years came over, and we decided to throw caution into the wind and drive around searching for someplace new and exciting. Which is pretty much anywhere other than West on Centre (which had great food, but was uber-packed when I went a few months ago).
I now have my first West Roxburian restaurant recommendation. The Himalayan Bistro on Centre Street (directly across from West on Centre) was pretty much the cat's meow. Reasonable prices, great location, excellent food, really helpful waiters. It came to approximately $20/per person, and that included appetizer, main dish, and naan--PLENTY of it (the leftovers alone might be enough for two more meals). If I was just going to pick up lunch for one, it could easily be under $10. Try the momo. It's apparently unique to that restaurant, and was a completely delightful appetizer.
I hope to shock my coworkers with my leftovers. "Annie," the will say, "Where is the typical instant oatmeal and English muffin scrounged from the office kitchen?"
I am a free office food junkie. I am okay with that. It is free, after all. Quality is not as important for the noontime meal as is the dough shelled out for it. I do want to pay of my student loans eventually, after all.
Tonight I head to my alma mater to catch their Spring theatre production, "Loves Labours Lost." This is my favorite Shakespeare comedy, and I am thoroughly put out that they should do it the year after I've graduated. Still, I look forward to it, even if the hour plus drive is already stressing me out (my poor Civic is having major issues these days).
Oh, and Happy Home Opener. I'm sure I'll catch the highlights on the morning news. And on the morning train. And morningtime at the office.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
HAIR
It occurred to me that on my first day in the blogosphere, I should probably not have more than one entries.
I live on the wild side.
Boston needs to stop being so windy. I don't understand how I can look tolerable for work when from the moment I step out of my door in the morning, any progress I've made arranging my bangs before departure is immediately (excuse the corniness I'm about to release upon you) gone with the wind (phew).
I look like a little girl playing dress up right now. High heeled shoes, dress, jewelry, make-up...and windblown, unkept hair that looks like a child's valiant attempt at a fashionable updo. I managed to half-control my hair when I arrived at work, and then made the fatal mistake to head to the CVS on Boylston on lunch break for some toothpaste (curse you, need for hygeine!). My hair is officially beyond all hope of restoration.
I don't really care myself. Messy hair is something I've dealt with for the majority of my life, and since re-cutting my bangs last June, it's become an even more important issue to wrestle with in the morning. And by "wrestle," I mean "use blowdrier and patience on." O, how I loathe wrestling!
This could probably be solved with some hairspray. But I associate hairspray with being in a show. I will only ruin my hair with excessive chemical products if it's to better the theatrical presentation. Or at least makes me look good onstage (a hard feat, apparently, I'm told I have a "shadowy face"). So today I shall be Windblown McGee, and hope that someday, the wind tunnel next to my place of work will be revamped into a tunnel of sunshine. Or a tunnel of love (I'll just go ahead and say it: the businessmen of Boston are pretty sharp).
I live on the wild side.
Boston needs to stop being so windy. I don't understand how I can look tolerable for work when from the moment I step out of my door in the morning, any progress I've made arranging my bangs before departure is immediately (excuse the corniness I'm about to release upon you) gone with the wind (phew).
I look like a little girl playing dress up right now. High heeled shoes, dress, jewelry, make-up...and windblown, unkept hair that looks like a child's valiant attempt at a fashionable updo. I managed to half-control my hair when I arrived at work, and then made the fatal mistake to head to the CVS on Boylston on lunch break for some toothpaste (curse you, need for hygeine!). My hair is officially beyond all hope of restoration.
I don't really care myself. Messy hair is something I've dealt with for the majority of my life, and since re-cutting my bangs last June, it's become an even more important issue to wrestle with in the morning. And by "wrestle," I mean "use blowdrier and patience on." O, how I loathe wrestling!
This could probably be solved with some hairspray. But I associate hairspray with being in a show. I will only ruin my hair with excessive chemical products if it's to better the theatrical presentation. Or at least makes me look good onstage (a hard feat, apparently, I'm told I have a "shadowy face"). So today I shall be Windblown McGee, and hope that someday, the wind tunnel next to my place of work will be revamped into a tunnel of sunshine. Or a tunnel of love (I'll just go ahead and say it: the businessmen of Boston are pretty sharp).
Begin the Beguine
As a rule, I don't think it's polite to think that I have anything interesting to say. My friends would say that means that I'm a self-basher, as it were--I just call it modesty. Either way, I'm entirely convinced that this blog will be universally ignored. Why begin it, then?
Everybody loves a list:
1) I am a receptionist at a VC firm that I'm fairly sure doesn't really need me here. I answer phones, mostly, and there are certainly days when the phone doesn't ring often. This leaves me at the computer all the livelong day. In short: I am bored.
2) People have told me that I should. I am, like most others, a lemming. Sure, I might have second thoughts before jumping off that cliff with everyone else, but in the end, I'm pretty sure I'd still make that leap.
3) Maybe, just maybe, blogging is that one hidden talent that I have yet to discover. I've long been of the belief that everybody has at least one thing that they're really, really good at. I've tried a lot of things, and so far, I've been passable, but not exceptional, at a great many of them. I thought curling might be my undiscovered natural talent, but I finally tried it in December. It is most definitely not. I wouldn't even consider myself of a "passable" level.
4) A whole lot of new things are happening to me. I graduated college in May of last year, moved to the city, and began a new job. I live by myself, and rarely get the opportunity to visit with my friends (they all had the audacity to not move to the city with me), so I don't have the luxury of being able to tell these new experiences to anyone. Mayhaps a blog can be a stand-in friend. Which, even as I'm writing it, I realize sounds completely pathetic. But as an (almost) 23-year-old female who hasn't had a boyfriend since the eigth grade, I think my pathetic-ness has peaked, and I can't really do much harm.
5) I ride the commuter rail to and fro Monday through Friday (at least). Public transportation might as well be a sitcom. Or a crime drama, depending what line you're a patron of, I suppose. Somebody has to write sitcoms (as the WGA taught us not so very long ago). It may as well be me.
So there you have it. My first post. I'm already doubting reason #3, but a lack of talent doesn't stop some from reaching success (read: slight jab at Julia Stiles). Burn.
Everybody loves a list:
1) I am a receptionist at a VC firm that I'm fairly sure doesn't really need me here. I answer phones, mostly, and there are certainly days when the phone doesn't ring often. This leaves me at the computer all the livelong day. In short: I am bored.
2) People have told me that I should. I am, like most others, a lemming. Sure, I might have second thoughts before jumping off that cliff with everyone else, but in the end, I'm pretty sure I'd still make that leap.
3) Maybe, just maybe, blogging is that one hidden talent that I have yet to discover. I've long been of the belief that everybody has at least one thing that they're really, really good at. I've tried a lot of things, and so far, I've been passable, but not exceptional, at a great many of them. I thought curling might be my undiscovered natural talent, but I finally tried it in December. It is most definitely not. I wouldn't even consider myself of a "passable" level.
4) A whole lot of new things are happening to me. I graduated college in May of last year, moved to the city, and began a new job. I live by myself, and rarely get the opportunity to visit with my friends (they all had the audacity to not move to the city with me), so I don't have the luxury of being able to tell these new experiences to anyone. Mayhaps a blog can be a stand-in friend. Which, even as I'm writing it, I realize sounds completely pathetic. But as an (almost) 23-year-old female who hasn't had a boyfriend since the eigth grade, I think my pathetic-ness has peaked, and I can't really do much harm.
5) I ride the commuter rail to and fro Monday through Friday (at least). Public transportation might as well be a sitcom. Or a crime drama, depending what line you're a patron of, I suppose. Somebody has to write sitcoms (as the WGA taught us not so very long ago). It may as well be me.
So there you have it. My first post. I'm already doubting reason #3, but a lack of talent doesn't stop some from reaching success (read: slight jab at Julia Stiles). Burn.
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