One of the many perks of my current job is that I get to share a bullpen with three coworkers and an endless stream of printer-gnomes — as opposed to the monotony of having my own private cubicle or office. [For the record, I would like to add “private cubicle” to my collection of oxymorons; right next to “fun date”.] Apparently, I am invisible to the printer-gnomes who stomp into my space; in the past week alone I have had more arses in my face than a proctologist at a haemmorhoid convention. All of this wonderfulness combined ensures that my privacy level is firmly set to zero. By way of compensation, however, I can never get away from the relentless chatter of one of my compulsive-talker colleagues. As yet another additional benefit, our partition walls are roughly six feet high which means that since we cannot be seen from certain angles then we must not exist and that makes it fair game for anybody to stand nearby and hold lengthy conversations. Thankfully, these people feel that they need to speak loudly which is just as well since what is left of my hearing is being systematically destroyed by the printers. Well, that and jamming my fingers into my ears to block out the incessant chatterer who simply cannot NOT talk. Imagine the aggravation that must cause me considering I had to dump the Booty Call, in part, because he would not shut.the.fuck.up.

Truly, with the exception of those friendships that have originated in the workplace, there are very few amongst my friends who know that I am a very anti-social quiet person both at work and at home. Of course, nobody would know that I am very quiet when I am home alone . . . because I am alone. Sure, I have my moments when I’ll socialise briefly in the workplace, but for the most part I keep to myself . . . not counting the taunting emails that I am apt to fling out at my favourite coworkers without warning of any kind. At least those who have been foolish enough to share their personal email addresses with me. I just wish everybody else would be as vigilant as I am about checking their personal emails every five minutes while at work. Just because I don’t want to talk to people doesn’t mean I don’t want instant attention at my own convenience!

My friends generally see me as being very outgoing and a lively entertainer; little do they know that I am only like that for about three hours per week. Although, since I am a natural-born flirt and have been known to engage in a little witty banter with anybody from age two through ninety and on occasion with random potted plants — but only the really pretty ones — I will oftentimes engage in a little spirited repartee with strangers while out shopping or dining.

Aside from sharing a bullpen, sitting next to three printers, having a compulsive-talker five feet away, and sitting with my back to the hallway [which necessitates the use of a rear-view mirror on my desk], there is one more splendid benefit as to my work environment: I sit directly outside of the men’s bathroom. The top of my bullpen wall is about two feet shorter than the men’s room door. While I couldn’t exactly reach over and push the door open, I could probably spit and hit the doorframe. Sitting here provides me with all manner of ongoing entertainment.

We have the Hackers who sound like they are coughing up their spleen. The Hawkers who like to rake globs of phlegm from their ankles up through their legs and torso while emitting a rich snot-toned growl — before the door closes behind them. The Nose-Blowers who, I might add, are not necessarily also members of the Hand-Washers. There are the Whistlers; none of whom can hold a tune or even whistle anything recognisable. Naturally, there are the Farters [my favourites; I mean who doesn’t find farts to be funny . . . except for some OB/gyns?]. Most disturbing of all, are the Talkers. These guys run in clusters of two and up. They start talking in the main hallway, keep up a stream of loud conversation through the brief side trip down the outside of my wall, burst through the bathroom door with an invigorating slam of said door, and continue their babble well into the inner sanctum of the lavatories. Am I the only woman who finds it to be strange that grown men hold conversations with one another about business while standing a foot apart under fluorescent lighting with their shriveled peckers in hand?

I recently heard one of my super-favourite young attorneys announce that he had been “rocking the purple tie for a couple of days”. I suspect this has something to do with masturbation. I’m just not sure whether to be surprised that he’d be discussing it at work; even with the use of the euphemism. I like the expression though, and I think I will add it to my euphemism list right after my personal favourite: “Dusting the Dragon”.

This entry was posted on Monday, December 3rd, 2007 at 4:24 pm and is filed under Humour. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.