Wednesday, February 16, 2011
There’s my radio (from which alternately issues forth NPR and jazz), photographs of Things 1 and 2, postcards of quilts, the dozen roses my husband gave me for V-Day, meaningful personal mementos like the amigurami Domo I crocheted up last summer, dying plants, my files, my rolodex, etc. It's a pretty inviting, space: professional - yet personal; tidy - yet lived in; functional- yet quirky: a place where I am motivated to move mountains and write mission statements till the cows come home.
Today, to complete the look and to ensure a calm, Zen-like day (like I've seen on tv) I decided to light some candles.
(You know where this is going, don't you?)
Dear Reader, before I could shout "Town Hall meeting!" I had set my Bounty paper towel - a remnant of my two-Diet Pepsi business lunch - on fire. At first, it merely darkened the edges of the “Quicker Picker Upper,” but then the paper towel was quickly enveloped in flames, reminding me that I'm a contract employee and lack disability insurance.
Fortunately, there's an "en suite" bathroom in my "office" (reserved only for the most senior - or most incontinent - of employees). I rushed the burning mess over to the bathroom where I pushed aside my wet pantyhose, ignored the globs of toothpaste in the sink (what kind of slobs work here anyway?), tossed it down and turned on the faucet.
This is a true story.
I’ve had to put out fires at work before, but never literally (I wrote that last line by myself, by the way).
So, no more candles for me. From what I heard at my performance review, they may not let me play with scissors in the future, either. I just can't be trusted.
Posted by Joan Oliver Emmer at 12:05 AM