I haven't been fired yet from my job! Just thought I'd mention that, since, you know, three whole days have gone by, and gahd knows it's harder than hell to keep a job longer than that. As a matter of fact, I'm starting to fit in! Heh!
I'm saying this kind of sarcastically, because, while everybody's been at least pleasant to me, I really get the feeling that all the Office Girls are a little afraid of me. Why? Maybe it's the evil way I grin when I'm standing at the copy machine. Maybe it's the tattoo. Maybe it's the fact that I wear my keychain on a chain around my neck. Maybe it's that good ol' Helena Thomas vibe: "HELENA'S A FREAK!" typed up in electric blue aura-font all around me. Who knows? But I seriously do think the Office Girls are afraid of me. Hee!
Today, my assignment was to copy a huge binder full of boring shit. It took me all day, literally, to finish even half of it, and believe me: there is absolutely nothing more boring than photocopying paperwork about mortgages. If my assignment had been to sort through a pile of hay looking for a needle, I would have been more entertained. But no: I spent seven and a half hours photocopying mortgage papers.
For the record, I don't know a damned thing about mortgages. I'm not even sure what a mortgage IS. I asked Norman, and he said "it's when you take money out on your house." I envisioned a nice upper-middle-class couple climbing up a nice ladder and placing stacks of money on their rooftop. A big purple cloud of Helena-style bewilderment found its way to the ceiling above my head. I don't think Norman noticed.
Anyway, I've made a decision, and all you nice readers better not try to wreck this for me; listen up! I'm going to stay at this job as long as I possibly can (that's two months, max), without finding out what a mortgage is. Indeed, I don't want to know what a mortgage is. I don't want to know what a "Good Faith Estimate" is. I don't want to know what an "Abstract" is, or a "Truth In Lending" statement, or an "Original Insurance Title." And I do not want to know what they are for. Why not? Because I get a real kick out of imagining what they might be; if we could all live in Helena-Land, everybody'd be chuckling every time somebody said "mortgage" to them. And also, because I want to go as long as possible without having any idea what I'm doing. Why? Well, because I get the distinct feeling that mortgages are bad, bad things. If I'm putting people into debt by doing what I'm doing, I don't want to know. If people are eating Ramen noodles instead of steaks because of me and my Office Girls, I don't want to know. If I'm making money for people who don't deserve it, I surely don't want to know. And ALSO, I just want to prove that this really is a job for a robot, and that any jackass who walks in off the street, not knowing a fucking thing about money and real estate, can do this job.
I made a little game out of photocopying the binder today. It was actually more of a little dance. I choreographed my steps as I photocopied that binder. And once I got the steps down, I tuned out and spent the afternoon daydreaming, thinking, fantasizing, and upgrading Helena-land.
["What is she DOING?" I imagine the Office Girls were wondering. "Is she doing a little DANCE with the photocopying machine? Ew! What a freak!" If only they knew...]
The Office Girls keep a huge stash of coffee in the cupboards. Tea, too. What bothers me about this is that the majority of it is very low-quality. I don't know how much money the Office Girls are making, but most or all of them are SURELY making more than me. I'm making seven dollars an hour, which, to me, is like, riches. That's like, more than ten grand a year! Damn! Okay, okay, this means nothing to you. Ten grand is peanuts to you. But to me, its riches, and the Office Girls piss me off horribly with their cheap coffee... You see:
One thing I've learned from my on-again-off-again state of relative poverty is that when you HAVE money, you should use it. You should be GOOD to yourself. As the saying goes, "you can't take it with you." Why the hell not buy some gourmet coffee for the cupboard? Why do rich people smoke cheap cigarettes? Why do rich people act like such freaking MISERS? Man, if I was making as much money as some of these Office Girls, I would eat lobster once a week. I would have a DVD player. I would take month-long vacations every year. And for gahd's sake, I wouldn't be drinking Price Chopper brand coffee. UGH! Maybe money just makes you lose all respect for yourself. It seems to me, the more money you have, the less you care about yourself. It's truly depressing.
When I get my first paycheck, I'm going to do three things. One, I'm going to buy myself a huge, wonderful meal at a decent restaurant. Maybe rigatoni à la vodka at Lost Dog. Hell yeah. Two, I'm going to put some money in the bank for the rent. And three, I'm going to buy some deliciously snooty coffee, put it in the cupboard at work, and mark it "Helena Thomas; please ask before you use this." Just to make the Office Girls jealous of my wonderful self-indulgence.
I know why Office People carry briefcases and smoke. It's because when you're wearing shoes that tap, the tapping echoes off the buildings. And the echoes make the buildings seem taller. Threatening. It's as if the buildings are LOOKING at you instead of just standing there. If you're carrying a briefcase, you can think about the weight hanging off your arm instead of thinking about the buildings watching you. If you're smoking, you can just concentrate on breathing, and you don't feel threatened at all. It's like yoga for boring people.
The word "hump" is one of the ugliest words in the English language, yet its meaning can be quite lovely if you do it right. On the other hand, we have the word "escrow," which is a beautiful word, but since I've seen it many, many times inside mortgage folders, I don't imagine it could possibly have a beautiful meaning. When I become a professor of linguistics someday, I will spend my life working to correct disgusting little problems like this.
Funny the things you think about when you're dancing all by yourself next to a copy machine all damn day.
I've decided what I want to get Norman for Christmas. I'll have to wait until after Christmas to buy it, though, because I suspect I'll have to save a lot of money. But the thing is, Norman, even though he's a pain sometimes, has been probably THE most steadfast person in my life since I met him. I cannot tell you how blessed I am to have met him. Yeah, he really does suck sometimes, but always in a gentle, redeemable way. And usually, he's too busy making me giggle to suck. He's a lovely person. I'm going to get him the best Christmas present ever. I'll save my pennies and send it to him on his birthday maybe.
The best part is, he'll never, EVER guess, not in a million, zillion years. When I have the means, which is extremely rare, I have this way of doing really wonderful things for people and completely surprising them. MAN, I love that!
As the clock struck four-thirty, I stopped doing my little dance with the copier and prepared to go home. There had been a little storm while I was at work, and the streets were wet. The sky still looked like it was weeping. I wanted nothing more than to take off the evil tapping shoes and walk home barefoot. Imagine what the Office Girls would think of me then!
Had I actually done it, walked home with my shoes in my hand and my blisters breathing a sigh of relief, I would have come home, typed up an entry that said, "gosh, I love walking home barefoot!" And you likely would have thought, "what a FREAK!" I bet many of you would have been sort of impressed, and thought, "where ARE the people in this world who walk home from their office job with no shoes or socks on?!" Well, they're probably all around you. But they're too grosses out by all the BARF in the streets to actually do it. Rain washes everything away but the barf. I don't know how the hell THAT works. Maybe the rain is too grossed out to touch the barf-puddles, too.
Somebody get out there and clean up the damned barf in the streets so that I can resume my pleasant behavior as Your Friendly Neighborhood Freak.
I want a cookie. Just a few more days until my paycheck, and then I can get one.
~Helena*