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Love Poems for the Office

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Hardcover (Paper-over-Board, no jacket)
$15.00 US
5.04"W x 7.62"H x 0.6"D   | 7 oz | 16 per carton
On sale Dec 01, 2020 | 112 Pages | 9780593190708
In the spirit of his Love Poems collections, as well as his wildly popular New Yorker pieces, New York Times bestseller and Thurber Prize-winner John Kenney returns with a hilarious new collection of poetry--for office life.

With the same brilliant wit and biting realism that made Love Poems for Married People, Love Poems for People with Children, and Love Poems for Anxious People such hits, John Kenney is back with a brand new collection that tackles the hilarity of life in the office. From waiting in line for the printer and revising spreadsheet after spreadsheet, to lukewarm coffee, office politics, and the daily patterns of your most annoying--and lovable--coworkers, Kenney masterfully captures the warmth and humor of working the "9 to 5" in today's modern era.
"Kenney's sweet, funny poems about the banal and everyday—too-true nods to the intimacy of sharing a bed with someone without touching at all, or the nothing-speak of corporate communication—make great presents for spouses, friends, and work wives." —Vanity Fair

“It’s a witty reflection on the humiliations of work before and during the covid-19 pandemic.” The Washington Post

“A compendium of love poems to the we-never-thought-we’d-miss-it banality of office life—and a few clearly recent additions to our ‘offices’ at home.” Vanity Fair

“The fourth installment in John Kenney’s bestselling 'Love Poems' series, this ode to office politics in the Zoom-era is spot-on, hilarious, timely, and just brilliant.” –GMA.com

"The third installment in John Kenney’s hilarious trifecta of tongue-in-cheek, laugh-out-loud poems, this New Yorker contributor’s slim book pokes fun at everything we take for granted about #worklife." Katie Couric Media

“Maybe the release is perfect timing—if readers want to fantasize about falling in love over lukewarm coffee and barely legible spreadsheets.” Willamette Week
© Rick Knief
John Kenney is the New York Times bestselling author of the humorous poetry collections Love Poems for Married People, Love Poems for People with Children, and Love Poems for Anxious People, and the novels Talk to Me and Truth in Advertising, which won the Thurber Prize for American Humor. He has worked for many years as a copywriter. He has also been a contributor to The New Yorker since 1999. He lives in Brooklyn, New York. View titles by John Kenney

A Q&A with the author

Q: Your last collection, Love Poems for Anxious

People, came out at almost the exact same time the coronavirus hit the United States. Now you have Love Poems for the Office and many offices are either

closed or at least radically changed. Should you stop writing books?

A: That's a great question, and you are not the first person to suggest that (my publisher, friends, readers, my parents).

Q: What will your next untimely book title be?

A: Love Poems for the Apocalypse.

Q: I read your previous collection, Love Poems

for Anxious People.

A: Thank you.

Q: I'm joking. I didn't.

A: Oh.

Q: Why offices?

A: The idea was my editor's. My initial idea, Love Poems for Middle-Aged Poets Who Wish They Had Gone

into Finance Instead of Poetry Because Now They

Have Almost No Money in the Bank and Are Royally Screwed was rejected by my publisher.

Q: Have you ever worked in an office?

A: No, but I've certainly applied many times. As yet, I've not heard back.

Q: What you've done in this book is take the mundane world of the office and turn that world into mundane poems.

A: I think that's exactly right.

Q: You have been called the greatest poet of your generation. What's that like?

A: I have? I hadn't heard that.

Q: Wait. Sorry. That was Mary Oliver who was called the greatest poet of her generation. No one has called you anything except for some very bad names on Goodreads. Want to hear some of them?

A: I'll pass.

Hold the elevator?

If I am honest

I did see you

holding those two coffees

a file wedged under one arm.

Jill, right?

So let me explain what happened there, Jill.

I was kind of in a rush

to get back to my desk, I mean.

Not to a meeting or anything.

Just to eat my lunch

and simply space out

and watch YouTube.

So I had been standing

in that elevator

a good seven seconds

which can feel like a long time in an elevator.

And I'd pressed the close door button

a few times

(maybe ten?)

when I saw you shuffling toward the elevator

smiling

eyes wide

as if to say

Hold the door?

Please don't take this

as a criticism

but you are a slow walker, Jill.

Also the doors had started to close

in large part because I

was pressing the close door button

but making it look like I

was pressing the open door button

while making a face like

How do these crazy buttons work?!!

This is so complicated!

Get the next elevator, Jill.

Zoom calls in the time of coronavirus (part 1)

Mary is sitting on her Peloton

pedaling and talking.

Ben is in his car

waiting to go into a car wash.

Terry is in his daughter's room

surrounded by pink stuffed animals.

Greg is taking a shower

which makes it hard to hear him.

No one cares.

It's Zoom.

Zoom is from the Greek word for

no one gives a fuck anymore.

Shakespeare never used the word "ping" and neither should you

When you say

ping me

I want to punch you.

It's true.

Bio break, too.

It makes me cringe.

And if I am being honest

I don't care about your ducks or the row they're in.

I don't know what net-net means

unless it's being said by an excited tennis announcer.

Come to think of it

let's not circle back

or drill down

or take a deep dive

or take it offline

or level the playing field

or create action items

and honestly I don't care

if this won't scale

and may I add that

going forward

I would like to park this project.

And this job.

I quit.

Now.

Sorry.

I have a hard stop.

A review of the office holiday party (from the

police report)

The food ran out.

That was the problem.

The booze didn't, though.

That was also part of the problem.

Kissing people was another part of the problem.

In all there were a lot of parts to the overall problem.

Another significant problem was that

I was dancing

alone

(according to eyewitnesses)

and spinning

and singing a song I had made up

Take your pants off!

C'mon, everybody, take your pants off!

And then, according to depositions

I performed a spinning move of such force

that I somehow flung myself

off the dance floor

and into a table

of several women from accounting

who were chatting with the CFO

breaking the table

and then throwing up on myself

and the CFO.

I think that was the main problem.

Still.

Prior to that it was one of the better holiday parties.

Whose meeting is this?

After we had all filed in

found a seat

made some small talk

someone said

I'm sorry but whose meeting is this?

Someone asked if it was Cindy's meeting.

But Cindy said she thought it was Jagdish's meeting.

Jagdish seemed confused and said it was Alan's.

Alan wasn't there so it probably wasn't his meeting.

Gary asked if it could have been a mistake

and then laughed too loud

and got embarrassed and thought about crying but didn't.

Jagdish said it couldn't be a mistake, that it was on his calendar.

Cindy seemed super annoyed and said

if it was on your calendar to jump off the building would you do it, Jagdish?

It got quiet after that

during which everyone wondered

what the point of this meeting was

what the point of any meeting was for that matter

wondered where time went

and why they hadn't done more with their lives.

And as they filed silently out of the room

to allow another meeting in

no one had any idea

how they would account for this

on their time sheet.

Why are you tanned?

At the morning staff meeting someone asked me how I was feeling.

I said great.

So you're better, they asked.

Which is when I remembered that I had called in sick the day before.

Definitely better, I said. Probably a twenty-four-hour bug.

Was it a tanning bug? someone else asked. Because you look tan.

Oh . . . this, I said. Yeah. I had a fever. So it could be that.

Fevers make you tanned?

I said they could, in rare instances.

But someone Googled that quickly and said that wasn't a thing.

You know what can make you tan is the sun, someone suggested.

On a golf course, someone else added.

I agreed that that was possible.

But you were sick, they said.

I was. I was sick. So I wasn't outside and certainly not on a golf course.

Were you outside on a golf course? they asked.

You can be sick in so many places, I said, though I wasn't sure what I meant.

So I added, You know how you can work from home? Well I have heard that you can be sick on a golf course.

Were you sick on the golf course? they asked.

I was nauseated on the front side, yes. Mostly because of my putting.

I felt much better on the back nine.

Here comes Milo

I quickly pick up the phone

even though it hasn't rung

because Milo is coming.

Uh-huh . . . okay . . . I understand

I say to no one.

Most people would wave

leave

understand.

Not Milo.

Milo leans against the high riser

of my cubicle

biting a nail

smelling it

a man with time on his hands.

He is at work after all.

I point to the phone

hand over the mouthpiece.

What's up, Milo? On a call.

Milo examines all of his fingernails

and I wonder if he has even heard me.

Then he chuckles and says

My weekend was crazy sick.

(It's Wednesday.)

That's great, I say. It's just . . . I have this call.

He moves some files off the chair next to my desk

and then sniffs my half-eaten sandwich.

Who's the call with? Milo asks.

Umm . . . my oncologist, I say.

Cool. I'll wait.

Team building

It had been a long day

of team-building exercises

and I sort of thought

we were on the same page

as to how ridiculous it was.

It turns out we were

not on the same page.

Which may be why

I did not

catch you

during the trust fall.

I thought it would be funny.

And it was.

For me.

Briefly.

I never thought

you would land

so hard.

Or that your head

would make that sound.

Or need two stitches.

Just as I never thought

you would trust me

as I had once trusted you

to give me a a raise.

Trust is a funny thing.

Welcome to the group

I am sure

it will be fine

that we are now

working

in the same group

even though

we hooked up

a while back

after an office party

and then went out

a couple of times

but ended badly

and then

hooked up again

when you said

you were leaving

the company

but ended up staying

and we ended badly

again.

Not to mention

I have heard

you are dating someone

from finance now.

How nice.

Also.

That idea

you presented today?

I hated it.

What I would do differently if you weren't my boss

I wouldn't laugh

the next time you tell that joke

about the two nuns

because it's not funny

or even physically possible.

I would just stare at you

as if to say

you're a dickhead.

And then I might say

out loud

You're a dickhead.

And when you came by my cubicle

to ask if I had gotten to that report

even though you could see

that I was eating an egg salad sandwich

only to say

I guess it will have to wait until after your lunch

and make a face

and say how much you hate egg salad

I might say something like

That's funny because I hate your face.

I would say that if you weren't my boss

and I didn't have a mortgage.

And then I might add that your kids are weird-looking.

Because they are.

Who keeps stealing my yogurt?

The first noble truth of Buddhism

is that life is suffering.

And that suffering has a cause.

It's called craving or attachment.

(I should mention here that I am not Buddhist.

I read all that stuff on a Snapple cap once.)

My point is I am suffering

as I was very attached to

my 3 p.m. snack.

You all know this.

And yet even though I have

clearly marked my snacks

(Elaine's snack . . . DO NOT TOUCH!)

you take them.

I think it was you, Greg.

Or possibly Tracy.

I will find out.

That was a Chobani yogurt

you stole

you sons of bitches.

I will go through your trash.

I will find the empty container

which I will then recycle (per company policy).

And then I will exact revenge.

Suffering, indeed.

Coming soon to a cubicle near you.

Open seating

I love the new open seating plan.

I really do.

I love having no idea

where I am going to sit each day.

Or where others are.

The democratic nature of it

that anyone

can sit

anywhere

at any time.

How you can't keep a photo

or a book

or anything for that matter

at your work space

or it is taken away that evening

by the cleaning crew.

The thing is though

I have been sitting

in this seat for, like,

two weeks now.

And I'm not sure why I'm yelling.

But seriously

get the hell out of my seat.

Mythirdemailtotechsupportregardingmyfreakingstickyspacebar

Notsureifyoureceivedmypreviousemails.

Ihaveastickyspacebarandit'smakingmyworkverydifficult.

Isthereanywayyoucouldgetbacktome?

I'matextension6679.

Oremail.

Createaworkorder.

Somesignthatyouareawareoftheproblem.

Becauseitisaproblem.

ClientsarewonderingwhatthehellIam

sayinginmyemails.

Decipheringthemlikeit'ssomekindof

BletchleyParkduringWorldWarIIscenario.

JustanoteontheBletchleyParkthing.

TheyactuallycrackedtheEnigmaCode.

AllI'mlookingforisaloaner!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you for heating up fish leftovers in the break room microwave again

I am

assuming

it's fish.

Though it certainly

could be

something else.

A dead man's foot

for example

if the smell

is any indication.

Break room's all yours.

You will be missed

This place will not be the same

without you, Wayne.

You're the man.

Do you know that?

I certainly didn't know that.

I just learned that today

from some of the people here

at this very small going-away party

in your office

which I wandered into

after leaving a meeting early.

Layoffs are the worst.

I just wanted to say

good luck

finding a new job

especially in this economy.

And also to introduce myself.

And ask if it would be okay

if I took your chair

and that awesome retro joke photo.

Which it turns out

is not a retro joke photo

but your family.

My bad.

Okay to take the chair?

Zoom calls in the time of coronavirus (part 2)

Why yes

that was my five-year-old son

running back and forth

behind me

nude

shouting

Anus! Anus! Anus!

while the dog barked

and my husband yelled

and I leaned away from the computer camera

so no one would hear me shout

Greg! For Chrissakes, can you get the fucking kids out of here?!

and then smoothly sat back up

only to see the rather stunned faces

of my colleagues

and hear my boss

remind everyone

to mute themselves.

We're in cubicles, Betsy, which means I can hear your phone conversations

You have my sympathy

Betsy

on the strife

in your home life.

But I do not think

that I

or the nine other people

who make up digital marketing

should hear you say

I'm sick of you getting drunk

and peeing in the bed, Alan.

And Alan's response

which you repeated aloud

Oh I'm the one who drives you to drink

was neither kind nor fair.

Though I cannot speak to your

homelife and your ability

to make someone want to drink heavily.

Though I do think Alan may have a point.

. . .

I am sorry

you are not feeling well

Bets.

But here's a thought.

Maybe make that call from home

or the bathroom

or another country.

Because everyone can hear

you tell your (hopefully?) doctor

that you have a burning sensation

when you urinate

which I will grant you

is no fun.

. . .

Sorry

what exactly do you mean

when you say

you've found a good spot

in the woods

to bury the body?

Cat.

Okay then.

Sorry for listening in.

Wait.

Your cat's not dead.

A word of advice to the interns

Please take this in the spirit

with which it is given but

I got sooo hammered last night

might not be something

you want to share

in the elevator.

It may surprise you to learn

that many of us could already sense that

from both your pallor

and the stale smell of

off-gassing booze emanating from your body.

Also, congratulations on

hooking up last night with

a totally hot guy.

All of us hope you're both

very happy in the years to come

About

In the spirit of his Love Poems collections, as well as his wildly popular New Yorker pieces, New York Times bestseller and Thurber Prize-winner John Kenney returns with a hilarious new collection of poetry--for office life.

With the same brilliant wit and biting realism that made Love Poems for Married People, Love Poems for People with Children, and Love Poems for Anxious People such hits, John Kenney is back with a brand new collection that tackles the hilarity of life in the office. From waiting in line for the printer and revising spreadsheet after spreadsheet, to lukewarm coffee, office politics, and the daily patterns of your most annoying--and lovable--coworkers, Kenney masterfully captures the warmth and humor of working the "9 to 5" in today's modern era.

Praise

"Kenney's sweet, funny poems about the banal and everyday—too-true nods to the intimacy of sharing a bed with someone without touching at all, or the nothing-speak of corporate communication—make great presents for spouses, friends, and work wives." —Vanity Fair

“It’s a witty reflection on the humiliations of work before and during the covid-19 pandemic.” The Washington Post

“A compendium of love poems to the we-never-thought-we’d-miss-it banality of office life—and a few clearly recent additions to our ‘offices’ at home.” Vanity Fair

“The fourth installment in John Kenney’s bestselling 'Love Poems' series, this ode to office politics in the Zoom-era is spot-on, hilarious, timely, and just brilliant.” –GMA.com

"The third installment in John Kenney’s hilarious trifecta of tongue-in-cheek, laugh-out-loud poems, this New Yorker contributor’s slim book pokes fun at everything we take for granted about #worklife." Katie Couric Media

“Maybe the release is perfect timing—if readers want to fantasize about falling in love over lukewarm coffee and barely legible spreadsheets.” Willamette Week

Author

© Rick Knief
John Kenney is the New York Times bestselling author of the humorous poetry collections Love Poems for Married People, Love Poems for People with Children, and Love Poems for Anxious People, and the novels Talk to Me and Truth in Advertising, which won the Thurber Prize for American Humor. He has worked for many years as a copywriter. He has also been a contributor to The New Yorker since 1999. He lives in Brooklyn, New York. View titles by John Kenney

Excerpt

A Q&A with the author

Q: Your last collection, Love Poems for Anxious

People, came out at almost the exact same time the coronavirus hit the United States. Now you have Love Poems for the Office and many offices are either

closed or at least radically changed. Should you stop writing books?

A: That's a great question, and you are not the first person to suggest that (my publisher, friends, readers, my parents).

Q: What will your next untimely book title be?

A: Love Poems for the Apocalypse.

Q: I read your previous collection, Love Poems

for Anxious People.

A: Thank you.

Q: I'm joking. I didn't.

A: Oh.

Q: Why offices?

A: The idea was my editor's. My initial idea, Love Poems for Middle-Aged Poets Who Wish They Had Gone

into Finance Instead of Poetry Because Now They

Have Almost No Money in the Bank and Are Royally Screwed was rejected by my publisher.

Q: Have you ever worked in an office?

A: No, but I've certainly applied many times. As yet, I've not heard back.

Q: What you've done in this book is take the mundane world of the office and turn that world into mundane poems.

A: I think that's exactly right.

Q: You have been called the greatest poet of your generation. What's that like?

A: I have? I hadn't heard that.

Q: Wait. Sorry. That was Mary Oliver who was called the greatest poet of her generation. No one has called you anything except for some very bad names on Goodreads. Want to hear some of them?

A: I'll pass.

Hold the elevator?

If I am honest

I did see you

holding those two coffees

a file wedged under one arm.

Jill, right?

So let me explain what happened there, Jill.

I was kind of in a rush

to get back to my desk, I mean.

Not to a meeting or anything.

Just to eat my lunch

and simply space out

and watch YouTube.

So I had been standing

in that elevator

a good seven seconds

which can feel like a long time in an elevator.

And I'd pressed the close door button

a few times

(maybe ten?)

when I saw you shuffling toward the elevator

smiling

eyes wide

as if to say

Hold the door?

Please don't take this

as a criticism

but you are a slow walker, Jill.

Also the doors had started to close

in large part because I

was pressing the close door button

but making it look like I

was pressing the open door button

while making a face like

How do these crazy buttons work?!!

This is so complicated!

Get the next elevator, Jill.

Zoom calls in the time of coronavirus (part 1)

Mary is sitting on her Peloton

pedaling and talking.

Ben is in his car

waiting to go into a car wash.

Terry is in his daughter's room

surrounded by pink stuffed animals.

Greg is taking a shower

which makes it hard to hear him.

No one cares.

It's Zoom.

Zoom is from the Greek word for

no one gives a fuck anymore.

Shakespeare never used the word "ping" and neither should you

When you say

ping me

I want to punch you.

It's true.

Bio break, too.

It makes me cringe.

And if I am being honest

I don't care about your ducks or the row they're in.

I don't know what net-net means

unless it's being said by an excited tennis announcer.

Come to think of it

let's not circle back

or drill down

or take a deep dive

or take it offline

or level the playing field

or create action items

and honestly I don't care

if this won't scale

and may I add that

going forward

I would like to park this project.

And this job.

I quit.

Now.

Sorry.

I have a hard stop.

A review of the office holiday party (from the

police report)

The food ran out.

That was the problem.

The booze didn't, though.

That was also part of the problem.

Kissing people was another part of the problem.

In all there were a lot of parts to the overall problem.

Another significant problem was that

I was dancing

alone

(according to eyewitnesses)

and spinning

and singing a song I had made up

Take your pants off!

C'mon, everybody, take your pants off!

And then, according to depositions

I performed a spinning move of such force

that I somehow flung myself

off the dance floor

and into a table

of several women from accounting

who were chatting with the CFO

breaking the table

and then throwing up on myself

and the CFO.

I think that was the main problem.

Still.

Prior to that it was one of the better holiday parties.

Whose meeting is this?

After we had all filed in

found a seat

made some small talk

someone said

I'm sorry but whose meeting is this?

Someone asked if it was Cindy's meeting.

But Cindy said she thought it was Jagdish's meeting.

Jagdish seemed confused and said it was Alan's.

Alan wasn't there so it probably wasn't his meeting.

Gary asked if it could have been a mistake

and then laughed too loud

and got embarrassed and thought about crying but didn't.

Jagdish said it couldn't be a mistake, that it was on his calendar.

Cindy seemed super annoyed and said

if it was on your calendar to jump off the building would you do it, Jagdish?

It got quiet after that

during which everyone wondered

what the point of this meeting was

what the point of any meeting was for that matter

wondered where time went

and why they hadn't done more with their lives.

And as they filed silently out of the room

to allow another meeting in

no one had any idea

how they would account for this

on their time sheet.

Why are you tanned?

At the morning staff meeting someone asked me how I was feeling.

I said great.

So you're better, they asked.

Which is when I remembered that I had called in sick the day before.

Definitely better, I said. Probably a twenty-four-hour bug.

Was it a tanning bug? someone else asked. Because you look tan.

Oh . . . this, I said. Yeah. I had a fever. So it could be that.

Fevers make you tanned?

I said they could, in rare instances.

But someone Googled that quickly and said that wasn't a thing.

You know what can make you tan is the sun, someone suggested.

On a golf course, someone else added.

I agreed that that was possible.

But you were sick, they said.

I was. I was sick. So I wasn't outside and certainly not on a golf course.

Were you outside on a golf course? they asked.

You can be sick in so many places, I said, though I wasn't sure what I meant.

So I added, You know how you can work from home? Well I have heard that you can be sick on a golf course.

Were you sick on the golf course? they asked.

I was nauseated on the front side, yes. Mostly because of my putting.

I felt much better on the back nine.

Here comes Milo

I quickly pick up the phone

even though it hasn't rung

because Milo is coming.

Uh-huh . . . okay . . . I understand

I say to no one.

Most people would wave

leave

understand.

Not Milo.

Milo leans against the high riser

of my cubicle

biting a nail

smelling it

a man with time on his hands.

He is at work after all.

I point to the phone

hand over the mouthpiece.

What's up, Milo? On a call.

Milo examines all of his fingernails

and I wonder if he has even heard me.

Then he chuckles and says

My weekend was crazy sick.

(It's Wednesday.)

That's great, I say. It's just . . . I have this call.

He moves some files off the chair next to my desk

and then sniffs my half-eaten sandwich.

Who's the call with? Milo asks.

Umm . . . my oncologist, I say.

Cool. I'll wait.

Team building

It had been a long day

of team-building exercises

and I sort of thought

we were on the same page

as to how ridiculous it was.

It turns out we were

not on the same page.

Which may be why

I did not

catch you

during the trust fall.

I thought it would be funny.

And it was.

For me.

Briefly.

I never thought

you would land

so hard.

Or that your head

would make that sound.

Or need two stitches.

Just as I never thought

you would trust me

as I had once trusted you

to give me a a raise.

Trust is a funny thing.

Welcome to the group

I am sure

it will be fine

that we are now

working

in the same group

even though

we hooked up

a while back

after an office party

and then went out

a couple of times

but ended badly

and then

hooked up again

when you said

you were leaving

the company

but ended up staying

and we ended badly

again.

Not to mention

I have heard

you are dating someone

from finance now.

How nice.

Also.

That idea

you presented today?

I hated it.

What I would do differently if you weren't my boss

I wouldn't laugh

the next time you tell that joke

about the two nuns

because it's not funny

or even physically possible.

I would just stare at you

as if to say

you're a dickhead.

And then I might say

out loud

You're a dickhead.

And when you came by my cubicle

to ask if I had gotten to that report

even though you could see

that I was eating an egg salad sandwich

only to say

I guess it will have to wait until after your lunch

and make a face

and say how much you hate egg salad

I might say something like

That's funny because I hate your face.

I would say that if you weren't my boss

and I didn't have a mortgage.

And then I might add that your kids are weird-looking.

Because they are.

Who keeps stealing my yogurt?

The first noble truth of Buddhism

is that life is suffering.

And that suffering has a cause.

It's called craving or attachment.

(I should mention here that I am not Buddhist.

I read all that stuff on a Snapple cap once.)

My point is I am suffering

as I was very attached to

my 3 p.m. snack.

You all know this.

And yet even though I have

clearly marked my snacks

(Elaine's snack . . . DO NOT TOUCH!)

you take them.

I think it was you, Greg.

Or possibly Tracy.

I will find out.

That was a Chobani yogurt

you stole

you sons of bitches.

I will go through your trash.

I will find the empty container

which I will then recycle (per company policy).

And then I will exact revenge.

Suffering, indeed.

Coming soon to a cubicle near you.

Open seating

I love the new open seating plan.

I really do.

I love having no idea

where I am going to sit each day.

Or where others are.

The democratic nature of it

that anyone

can sit

anywhere

at any time.

How you can't keep a photo

or a book

or anything for that matter

at your work space

or it is taken away that evening

by the cleaning crew.

The thing is though

I have been sitting

in this seat for, like,

two weeks now.

And I'm not sure why I'm yelling.

But seriously

get the hell out of my seat.

Mythirdemailtotechsupportregardingmyfreakingstickyspacebar

Notsureifyoureceivedmypreviousemails.

Ihaveastickyspacebarandit'smakingmyworkverydifficult.

Isthereanywayyoucouldgetbacktome?

I'matextension6679.

Oremail.

Createaworkorder.

Somesignthatyouareawareoftheproblem.

Becauseitisaproblem.

ClientsarewonderingwhatthehellIam

sayinginmyemails.

Decipheringthemlikeit'ssomekindof

BletchleyParkduringWorldWarIIscenario.

JustanoteontheBletchleyParkthing.

TheyactuallycrackedtheEnigmaCode.

AllI'mlookingforisaloaner!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you for heating up fish leftovers in the break room microwave again

I am

assuming

it's fish.

Though it certainly

could be

something else.

A dead man's foot

for example

if the smell

is any indication.

Break room's all yours.

You will be missed

This place will not be the same

without you, Wayne.

You're the man.

Do you know that?

I certainly didn't know that.

I just learned that today

from some of the people here

at this very small going-away party

in your office

which I wandered into

after leaving a meeting early.

Layoffs are the worst.

I just wanted to say

good luck

finding a new job

especially in this economy.

And also to introduce myself.

And ask if it would be okay

if I took your chair

and that awesome retro joke photo.

Which it turns out

is not a retro joke photo

but your family.

My bad.

Okay to take the chair?

Zoom calls in the time of coronavirus (part 2)

Why yes

that was my five-year-old son

running back and forth

behind me

nude

shouting

Anus! Anus! Anus!

while the dog barked

and my husband yelled

and I leaned away from the computer camera

so no one would hear me shout

Greg! For Chrissakes, can you get the fucking kids out of here?!

and then smoothly sat back up

only to see the rather stunned faces

of my colleagues

and hear my boss

remind everyone

to mute themselves.

We're in cubicles, Betsy, which means I can hear your phone conversations

You have my sympathy

Betsy

on the strife

in your home life.

But I do not think

that I

or the nine other people

who make up digital marketing

should hear you say

I'm sick of you getting drunk

and peeing in the bed, Alan.

And Alan's response

which you repeated aloud

Oh I'm the one who drives you to drink

was neither kind nor fair.

Though I cannot speak to your

homelife and your ability

to make someone want to drink heavily.

Though I do think Alan may have a point.

. . .

I am sorry

you are not feeling well

Bets.

But here's a thought.

Maybe make that call from home

or the bathroom

or another country.

Because everyone can hear

you tell your (hopefully?) doctor

that you have a burning sensation

when you urinate

which I will grant you

is no fun.

. . .

Sorry

what exactly do you mean

when you say

you've found a good spot

in the woods

to bury the body?

Cat.

Okay then.

Sorry for listening in.

Wait.

Your cat's not dead.

A word of advice to the interns

Please take this in the spirit

with which it is given but

I got sooo hammered last night

might not be something

you want to share

in the elevator.

It may surprise you to learn

that many of us could already sense that

from both your pallor

and the stale smell of

off-gassing booze emanating from your body.

Also, congratulations on

hooking up last night with

a totally hot guy.

All of us hope you're both

very happy in the years to come