Don't you wish you worked in the office in The Office? Preferably the NBC one rather than the BBC one, mainly because Jim is quite a bit hotter than Tim, but still, either would do. My office is not like The Office, but sometimes it's still quite amusing. Sometimes there are scenes like this:
Last night, Gallaudet---who lives in Iowa, which is a place I totally used to make fun of but can't possibly now because I rather like her (but seriously, come on, doesn't it just make a joke funnier if you can somehow work "Des Moines, Iowa" into it somewhere?)---left me this in my comment box:
Dear Holly's Employer,
There are three pieces of advice I've been given in my life that have seemed to stick with me. The first was from my friend Ellen, with whom I lived in The Coldest House In London during university, weathering such everyday hurdles as the male flatmate who left his forest-green underpants to dry in full view on the radiator and disappeared into the (communal) bathroom for hours at a time with the collected works of Ezra Pound. Oh, he was a sweet boy really, a little dorky but ultimately harmless.
Last night during prime telemarketer time, the phone rang and Sean answered it. I was, as usual, reclining on the sofa---as I am wont to do after returning from a hard day's work throwing fake boobs against my office window---and this is what I heard:
Roughly 60% of my motivation for attending yoga is that the (rather attractivc male) teacher gives shoulder massages afterwards.
I've started using Swiffer and Dyson as verbs.
Someone found my website by googling "walked in on girlfriend peeing." I sort of feel sorry for him---one can only assume he was looking for advice on dealing with the embarassment of the situation.
When Sean and I talk to the cats, we refer to ourselves as Mama and Papa.
With French accents.
The fantastic house I'm currently still house-sitting is a lot more conducive to entertaining than my own apartment is---mostly because there is a dining room! and a dishwasher! and, you know, heat!---so last night two of my friends came over in their pajamas for a ceremonial evening of Thinly-Veiled Bitching About People We Don't Like, spinach pizza, and Prosecco. Which I rather think is one of the world's most excellent combinations, don't you?
What is it about synchronized dance routines that makes them quite possibly THE FUNNIEST THING IN THE WORLD?
