A Day in the Life of Molly's Office Job, Part II

THE MYSTERY OF THE SECRET PASSAGEWAY



My office environment is divided into a number of different areas, or interconnected sectors, if you will. The company occupies the entire second floor of a U-shaped building, so the consultants have their private offices in one wing, connected by a corridor with the stairs and "lift" to the client services wing, which is the wing I occupy as "Client Services Associate" (that's official--it says so on my business card). The client services sector is broken up into an open space with computers for client use, the desk where me and my boss Aimee sit, a kitchen, a few private office areas, reception, and two conference rooms. Being that there are so many different areas one could occupy during one's workday, it is therefore incredible that no matter where Aimee and I go to try to enjoy our lunch hour in peace, we will be disturbed at least once, without fail. Sometimes it is by a technophobic consultant asking how to turn on the LCD projector (Aimee: "You press the button that says ON!"), and sometimes it is by a socially-challenged, generally inept, or overall creepy client, who will stare at us urgently and disturbingly through the glass door until we grudgingly put down our sandwiches and come out, in order to ask us for the eight-hundredth time whether fax pages need to be fed in face down.

So, one day a few weeks ago when we had just seated ourselves in an empty conference room to enjoy some nice warm soup, we were annoyed but not surprised to see a man come wandering out and then stand loitering by the door, occasionally glancing in at us and then pretending to ignore us. So Aimee sighs and gets up.

Aimee: Can I help you, sir?

Man: Ah, yes. I have an appointment with Matt at one o'clock.

Aimee: Okay, I'll just page him to let him know you're here.

Man: Oh, no, he knows I'm here.

Aimee (confused): Oh, okay. Has he seen you?

Man: He knows I'm here. I'll just go wait in the computer room for him.

Aimee: Okay...

So Aimee sits back down with me, and we discuss WHY this man felt the need to interrupt our lunch just to let us know that he had a meeting with Matt, if both he and Matt were available and knew of each others' presence in the office. Five minutes later, the man returns, again gazing distractedly at us through the glass door. I go out this time.

Me: Excuse me, can I help you with something?

Man: Well, it's just that I'm waiting for Matt, and he still hasn't appeared.

Me: Appeared?

Man: Yes.

Me: Well have you already seen each other? Does he know you're here?

Man: Yes.

Me: Okay, well I can call him and let him know you're ready for your appointment.

Man: No, that's okay. I'll just wait here for him to appear through the secret passageway.

Me (in my mind): ?"?£"£$??????^$*%&*?"?????????? Secret passageway????

Me (out loud): Um, okay. So you don't want me to call him.

Man: No, he knows I'm here.

So I sit back down, and Aimee and I exchange incredulous looks as we silently sip our soup. Five minutes later, the man knocks on the glass door.

Man: Excuse me, would you mind please calling Matt to tell him I'm here?

***

I've been here for about two months now, and I've been around all office sectors a fair number of times, but I've yet to come across this mysterious alleged "secret passageway".

A Day in the Life of Molly's Office Job

As everyone knows, office gossip is the best part of working. I mean, after all, when the minutes are dragging along like centuries and the taupe wall coloring is eating away at your soul, what gets you through the day? Bitching about/laughing at it with your co-workers. Which is why I've decided to post some entries about the dumb/funny/ridiculous moments here in my London office.

Ridiculous Interchange #1:

I was stationed at the reception desk, since the regular receptionist was on vacation in Spain. One of our consultants strolls in, walks over to my desk and leans up on his elbows, which is an obvious signal that he intends on starting in on the small talk. So I put on my nice receptionist's smile, and it begins (keep in mind that this conversation took place after I had already been working for the company for about two and a half months):

Mr. Consultant: Hi Molly, how's everything going? You settling in here okay?

Me [confused at what seems like a question he should've asked about 6 weeks earlier]: Um, yeah, everything's fine. Thanks.

Him: So where are you staying?

Me: You mean, where do I live?

Him: Yeah, yeah.

Me: Camden.

Him: Ah, Camden. Up by the market there, eh? [Referring to the huge open-air market that sells everything from food to books to vintage clothing; a very distinctive-looking part of London.]

Me: Yep, just down the road from there.

Him: Have you seen that movie about Camden?

Me: Hmm I don't know. Which movie was that?

Him: Oh, hmm I can't remember the name now. I'm blanking. It had an American actress, and Hugh Grant.

Me: Which American actress?

Him: Oh you know, that really famous one.

Me: Ummm...

Him: With the big lips. And brown hair.

Me: Angelina Jolie?

Him: No, not her. Oh, come on, that really famous one. Brown hair. Pretty. With Hugh Grant.

Me: [Thinking it could be Two Weeks Notice] Sandra Bullock?

Him: Nope, not her. Takes place in Camden. Right by Camden Market.

[Enter OTHER CONSULTANT, who he flags down for help]

Him: Hey, who's the most famous American actress?

Her: Julia Roberts?

Him: YES! What's the name of that movie she's in with Hugh Grant?

Her: Notting Hill?

Him: YES!

Me: Doesn't Notting Hill take place in Notting Hill, not in Camden?

Him: [Blank stare] Yes, I guess it does.


And then he just turned and walked out the door.

The end.

***Look out for the next episode of A Day in the Life of Molly's Office Job, coming soon!***

It's A Small World, After All

My decision to move to London was the product of one of the larger and more daunting choices in my life thus far. I am, after all, a girl who is drawn to the comfort in familiarity and who, in new and foreign situations, tends to become rather annoyingly lame, wimpish, and shy. If you need proof of this, you can just ask Sarah Conway, who literally had to drag me out of my dorm room freshman year to get me to have any kind of social life at all, even if it just meant hanging out in the boys' room down the hall for twenty minutes. (A thank you to you, Sar, for enabling me to have friends.) These antisocial tendencies in the face of "the unknown" may not be so surprising considering that I am from a town of 2500 people which is isolated on top of a very tall mountain, populated by personages who live in the same bark-trimmed abodes that their great grandparents probably built with their own two hippie hands. This all explains why my decision to say goodbye to my hard-won New York social group and fly off to the UK was a big deal.

And to tell you the truth, the move hasn't been as easy, spontaneous, or carefree as one might have hoped it would be. Homesickness has run its course like a bad fever, and overpriced phone cards have been burned through like so many Woolworths sale bin sparklers waved half-heartedly on Guy Fawkes night. But certain recent events have transpired in a way that has managed to lend me that much-needed spark of closeness, a reminder of my bygone days of confidence and relative popularity (in comparison to the nine phone numbers that now feature in my mobile phonebook, 3 of which belong to people I live with). These events center largely on the reappearance of key loved ones for brief intervals at the exact moments that they are needed. Here's the lineup:

--The ever-reassuring presence of my good friend Melissa here in Brit-land. If it weren't for all the loud, smokey dancing nights out with this hip, wine-swilling comrade of mine, I fear that my weekends would be painfully dull.
--Random presence of old high school buddy/ex-sort-of-boyfriend-type-deal/son of Jazzercize creator, who is currently studying at the same University as Sam and is living mere footsteps from my old study abroad dorm near Russell Square. In addition, he has gone from being an In-n-Out addict to a vegan in the three years since I last saw him, so we sometimes cook together.
--The tour of the band Akron/Family, of which my friend/ex-co-Angelica-Kitchen-employee Ryan is a member. Last night the tour rolled into London at the tail end of a lengthy and successful European tour. I saw the listing in NME and traveled to the Brick Lane venue to find my vegan buddy from ago, and was pleased to encounter him running across the bar area to give me a big hug and put me on the list for a fabulous and energetic show that truly warmed my heart.
--The pending arrival of my good friend Charlotte, whose three night stint on our sofabed overlaps with Thanksgiving, thus amplifying the general excitement of the upcoming week exponentially. I am ridiculously happy that I will be seeing her soon.
--The pending arrival of my good friend Jara, who is seemingly having a wonderfully eventful time of things in Madrid. It appears that even though we are from the same town, she is much braver than me.
--The pending arrival of my parents, whose frequent emails and jpeg attachments of various pets always cheer me, but whose actual presence will be ever so much better.
--The pending arrival of my good friend Michael Mapel, who is by far the best email writer I know; his epistles are not only frequent, but poetic and uplifting as well. I have a hunch that my new years with him will end the long and dreary history of watered-down celebrations that have made up the respective commencements of the years of my life thus far.
--And, of course, Sammy. No matter how bad a mood I'm in, he always gets up to make me tea and crumpets before work and gives me a kiss when I come home. Sometimes that's just the best kind of comfort a girl could ask for.

I just wanted to say thank you guys for making my life a happier place for me to live.

Kung Fu Monks

While all y'all have been busily snatching up tickets to see guys in colorful coats prance around or set props of Shakespearean death contraptions appropriated by rock bands, I have decided to go a slightly different route with my nightly entertainment. Last night, accompanied by "Samuelson" and my manager Aimee, I attended London's Peacock Theatre to witness the amazing, the incredible, KUNG FU MONKS!



As the venue advert says: Think Kill Bill. Think Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. But with one major difference: the Kung Fu gloriousness is performed by real monks rather than hired stunt professionals. Most of these monks are at the prime of their health and fitness, their bodies as strong and supple as bamboo. But some of these monks were seven (as in SEVEN YEARS OLD)! When I was seven I was running around with the sniffles and one shoe untied, with an appointment to get my tonsils out. Why couldn't I have been a sword-wielding, robe-sporting monk with AMAZING moves? Life isn't fair.

The introductory voice-over at the beginning of the show explained the art of Kung Fu as being the Shaolin Monks' response to the intrusion of a world of hatred, violence, and wars upon their peaceful ways--an original form of self defense taking its cues from the movements of animals. And, at this show, I witnessed some animal moves the likes of which have never been seen! (Besides, of course, by all the other people who have bought tickets to go see them.) As each monk came on to do his solo, we saw a scorpion, a snake, and an uncannily accurate squirrel emerge from the figures Fu-ing before us.

Then, there were also the requisite awe-inspiring and death-defying stunts. First, a man lay down with his back across three sharpened machetes (their sharpness was proven by an assistant monk dramatically chopping a ripe yellow melon into bits, flinging sweet juices all over the stage). Once he was comfortably situated across the machetes, a spike-studded panel was placed on his chest. Then, yet another monk lay down on top of the spiky panel on top of his friend, and two slabs of marble were placed upon his chest. These slabs of solid stone were then smashed by a sledgehammer.

Next, another monk walked up and then down a small pyramid of ornate and equally sharpened axe heads, carrying two full buckets of water to add weight to his lithe and limber body. Wow!

This was followed by another monk doing a fingerstand. Like a handstand, but with his entire body weight supported only on his two index fingers. There was also a guy who backflipped across the stage going from his feet to his head back to his feet, no hands involved.

Then, in what was perhaps the highlight of the show, a monk was raised aloft in a daring feat during which he was supported only by spears in his nipples:



Yeah. I think the phrase you're looking for here is "man alive!"

Hiiii-Yah!

Mini Update

Before reading this post, please refer to the comments section of "The Glory of Sound" post, below.

***UPDATE***

Today, the Managing Director of my company, who is normally stationed at the other London office, came to our office in Mayfair to conduct various meetings and telephone calls. This is not an unusual occurrence, and whenever someone from another UK office comes to Mayfair for whatever reason, I inevitably get 3 or 4 calls throughout the day from other staff looking for the traveling personage. So, when I got a caller on the line asking for our Managing Director, I thought nothing of it. Nothing, that is, until I was unable to locate him and, as a result, politely asked who was calling so that I could jot down a message.

IT WAS ALASTAIR!

I concealed my excitement and was about to hang up, but just then the Managing Director strode down the hallway. I waved him down and told him about the caller. He made an "oh no, not Alastair!" face and instructed me to tell Alastair he was in a meeting. So, apparently Alastair is unpopular, and not secretly snogging or bonking anyone on the Xerox machine. A shame, really.

Mah-Jong Madness

On this dreary, wet, and grey London Sunday, my flatmates and I took one look out the window and decided that we'd be staying in. After we all lay around on the couch and moaned for a while, trying to think of something fun to do, Jenny made the decision for us. She went straight for the games corner (a nod to Char-Par here) and picked up the dreaded Mah-Jong mini briefcase.

You see, in our games corner we have many entertaining and easy-to-play games of all types, games of intellect and games of chance, board games, card games, even a game called "Butt Head" that includes brightly colored nylon hats fitted with strips of velcro onto which a fuzzy ball is thrown by drunken teammates. You name it, we've got it. And, lurking in the shadows of these other fun games on the shelf, that maroon-colored mini briefcase has been hiding ever since we moved in, rubbing its evil hands together and cackling. It came from the depths of Sam's mom's garage in Cardiff. Why he decided to bring this blasted mini briefcase all the way to London, when he didn't even remember to bring ONE of his FOUR umbrellas, and when none of us know how to play Mah-Jong, is a total mystery. But he did. And today we got it out and gave it some love.

Now, if one were to simply open up the mini briefcase and look inside, one would see and admire several neatly stacked rows of shiny, engraved red-and-white tiles, but glean absolutely no fraction of a clue about how to play. Luckily, Jenny recently discovered a Mah-Jong handbook with color illustrations at a second hand bookshop and bought it, thinking, of course, that it would teach us how to play. Here are a few examples of the helpful hints it offers:

"The player who draws East Wind is the leader for the first round. West Wind sits opposite him, South Wind sits to the right of East, and North Wind sits to the left. Note that these are not the standard points of the compass."

Oh, good. That's helpful already. Read: There are four compass points, and these will be assigned to the four players, but for some secret reason they won't be in any logical order, so if you're confused just accept it as a special, magical game-world in a far off land and shut up about it, you massive moron.

Next: "After each hand has been played, the privilege of holding East Wind passes to the player on East's right, unless East himself goes Mah-Jong or the game is a goulash."

These terms need absolutely no explanation, as they are clearly common knowledge for the entire human race.

"Thus in the following game, if South, West, or North go Mah-Jong, South becomes East, West becomes South, North becomes West, and East becomes North"

Obviously.

The book then goes on to explain how, after the "Twittering of the Sparrows," when the East Wind has judged the tiles to have been "washed" sufficiently, he calls "Pow!" to prompt the other Winds to take 36 tiles at random and build a double-layered "Wall" which will then be added together with the other players' "Walls" in order to make a square which will keep out the bad spirits of legend, in a clear-cut and perfectly rational chain of events. Then one player, assigned by a toss of the dice, performs the "breaking of the wall," and the bad spirits are never mentioned or worried about again.

So by now I assume that you all have a firm grasp of the fundamentals of this classic game. Don't forget that the tiles in the "Kong Box" can NEVER be replenished (Ha! I bet you thought they could, you idiot) and all Pungs, Kongs, and Chows must be exposed or concealed, and eventually fished or called. If you were wondering what happens when a player comes to the point when he must declare that he is "one for Mah-Jong," please see "Letting off a cannon" on page 39. At that point, if you still don't understand, then give up like we did.

Halloween Revisited

I know I never got around to posting the actual, physical outcome of my Halloween design ideas (see "Worst Blog Post Ever" below) on the day itself, but I didn't want my first Halloween in London, defined by such appropriately British costume dress, to go undocumented. After a day wandering around Camden Market, with the intriguing, intermingling smells of curry, lo mein, marijuana, and garbage tickling our nostrils, Sam and I gathered all the necessary materials to utterly transform ourselves into Wallace and Gromit, the classic clay duo. Green sweater vest? Check. Red tie? Check. One pair dark brown socks, plus tacky khaki slacks from Gap with tags retained in order to be returned the next day? Check. Google image search printouts of archetypal wedge of cheese and dog bone? Check and check.

And here we are:



Please compare to:



Not bad, eh?

Unfortunately, the costume party we were planning on attending turned out to be way the hell over on the other side of London, so we skipped it. Without any backup plan of another social event to attend, we just decided to deck ourselves out anyway and make the party come to us instead. So, with numbers 6 strong, we played kings like college kids (well...I guess one of us still is) and listened to Kanye West on a loop. Not a legendary Halloween, but not such a bad one either. There were no tears, after all.

The Glory of Sound

As I have made a few work friends since starting my new job at DBM, I have been inducted into the all-too-familiar realm of office gossip, and, more importantly, DBM employees' particular brand of time-wasting (or maybe it counts as effective time usage, as something has to be done whilst one is waiting for the fossil of a color printer to spew out one's documents at a slug's pace, after all). Yesterday, one of the consultants (a cool Aussie one with a penchant for photography and chocolates) snuck stealthily into my desk area to tell me about an awesome website that offers exactly what I've been needing lately. And, no, banish those dirty thoughts, it isn't *that* you sicko. It is a personalized online radio station, pumping endless new and exciting tunes through your desktop speakers for FREE. Apparently, some super-serious music lovers started this thing called The Music Genome Project, which is a valiant effort to map and categorize all the music ever created...ever. And so, by way of this splendid scientific phenomenon, this wonderful group of music-lovers have found a way to create a virtually endless stream of tailored musical truffles that sonically resemble the music you already know and love. You just type in a favorite song or artist, and the musical mechanism assesses the particulars (whatever they may be) of timing, vocal tracks, and each instrument in turn, and, like magic, matches them to other songs with similar components. The first ten hours of this service are free for every computer that uses it, and you're pretty much guaranteed to like everything you hear. So go to it!