I think I’ve made a huge mistake.

I am so exhausted that I would do almost anything for sleep—but I won’t do that?—even though I accomplished little last night to warrant such fatigue: ate a lot of spicy chicken (it was a Tuesday, after all), wistfully watched  the Presidential debate (“blah blah blah jobs blah blah blah Main Street blah blah blah unity”), sold a couple of iPhones, and somehow fell asleep on my floor with my pants off. (Surprisingly, I woke up this morning with both of my kidneys.) Oh, also, in between chicken and the debates—tragic: I sound like one of the economically distressed voters who will decide this election—I helped mop up the blood of one of my roommates who had apparently cut himself on a glass, the deduction of which was made in my most CSI of moments.

A minute ago, while a coworker was away from her desk, her heinous T-mobile paperweight of a phone rang, blaring that annoying Amy Winehouse song that always makes me feel like I’ve been hit in the head with a go-go boot. (“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”) As the initial laughter from the group softened —lame ring tones are always, always funny, especially among people with virtually no other reason to smile—I remarked: “I didn’t realize it was ‘Bring Your Daughter to Work Day.’” Kind of clever, right? Look, I’m trying—not very hard, I know, but it’s in moments like these where I often shine, where I emerge from behind the proverbial column [see below]. Yet only a few people chuckled, and even they didn’t seem happy about it. I wanted to shake them and yell, “You laugh at anything—Peanut, Powerpoint slides, window washers, light bulbs burning out!—but you can’t afford crack a grin at my weak sauce? C’mon.”

It’s an uphill climb here for me, apparently. I might have to resort to bringing in donuts every Friday. Or, if I can’t beat them, maybe I should join them. Anybody know where the nearest Kohl’s is located? After all, I need to dress the part. Before you think I’m a snob, let me concede that indeed I am. But only in regards to certain things: computers, electronics in general, Mexican food, amphetamines. And phones, I guess, judging from my comments above. With respect to clothes, though, I’m as egalitarian as it gets—my entire wardrobe probably cost about twenty dollars—but I at least try to be a little stylish in my quest for value. That is to say, I don’t buy the matching tie-shirt combos so popular among a large portion of my division.

Best news of the last twenty-four hours: Peanut won’t be here until noon. Worst news: apparently, he needs me to join him at meetings in southern Arizona at the end of October. For three days. Three days! Actually, he’ll be with me only for a single day (I’ll sweat out the rest on my own), but, still, we’ll be a sharing a rental car—-and, if I play my cards right, nothing else.

You know what’s sad? Every time that I begin a new entry I intend to write something positive about my job. I really do. Yet by the second or third sentence, the falsity of the charade weighs too heavily on me—if you’ve ever been in a loveless marriage, you probably know what I mean; for the record, though, I’m single, so I have to rely on my knitting club and Ladies Home Journal for insight—and I can’t help but succumb to the overwhelming desire to vent. Call it integrity. Committing my cynicism to record provides a sort of relief, I guess; sometimes it’s like a crescendo of warmth radiating through me. Which, incidentally, is exactly how a sex book found at a relative’s house over the weekend describes an orgasm. (It was sitting out. I promise.) Who knew blogging could be so similar? I would have started years ago!

Something positive and not related to orgasms (unless you’re Richard Simmons): my building has a gym. Sure, it’s more like the “fitness center” of a downtrodden, out-of-its-prime Courtyard hotel, but it has everything I need: water fountains, towels, and self-esteem books. Best of all, it’s open 24-hours, which means my goal of ringing in the new year on an elliptical machine just got a little closer to reality. Who needs South Beach when you have North Arlington, right? The door is locked at all times—perfect for taking naps during the day, I would imagine, but, fortunately, I haven’t reached that point yet; give it time—so I had to obtain a key. It felt very official. Not exactly a key to the city, I know, but I have to start somewhere.

Ah, now that I’ve permitted a wee bit of sunshine, let me return to my overcast gloom.

In the middle of one of my mid-morning emails, my ancient web browser alerted me that gmail had been blocked by the agency. (Not only they did cut off access, they had to do it before I had a chance to hit send. Animals!) I nearly called it quits on life right there. Seriously, I immediately envisioned my gmail-less future at this place, and it wasn’t pretty. (Hint: I was wearing pleated, polyester pants and had a 3×5 picture of an astronaut taped to my screen.) What are the cycles of grief? Because I think I tore right through them, pausing for a few extra moments on anger. Peanut just happened to be ambling by when this occurred, and I briefly considered kicking him in his bum leg, that’s how mad I was. No gmail? Are you kidding me? You might as well cut off my air supply. I am not made of stone! Ok, perhaps I’m being a little dramatic. Even without gmail, I could use my work account or simply continue to put extra miles on already overburdened Golden Calf. It’s the principle. (Actually, it’s more the convenience factor I’ miss, but principle always trumps.) I can understand, even support to a certain extent, this office’s draconian internet policy, which restricts access to everyday sites like youTube, Facebook, and porn. But caging the Camelot of web-based email is offensive and petty. Patronizing, even. (It’s bad enough that I have to work on a Dell.) Is it ironic that I am typing this on the job? Well, it’s ridiculous stunts like blocking gmail that have driven me here.

To deal with my fury and quickly deteriorating mental state, I quickly grabbed some papers—because, you know, that’s what busy people at work do—and headed out the door, hoping to maintain my composure at least until the elevator doors closed behind me, and thinking to myself: maybe it’s finally time to start a self-destructive habit, doesn’t matter which. A commiserating phone call and walk around the park later, I had calmed down, reminding myself that I chose to work here—woe is me—and resigning myself to the dull, grey life I was apparently meant to lead. At least for another few months before rotating right out of this anchor-of-a-position. (Assuming I do. Who knows, by that point Peanut and I could be the best of friends, playing frisbee golf on Fairfax Avenue and sending each other hilariously zany text messages outside the office.)

On my way back into the building—always a regular trail of tears, that walk is—I kind of hid behind a column (sigh, again) to avoid one of my co-workers, who, I must note, was arriving to work shockingly late. (I wasn’t really hiding, I’d argue, I just happen to jump out of her line of sight the moment I noticed her walking my way. Pure coincidence. I don’t know why I do this; it’s like a compulsion. Maybe I’m better suited for the CIA? Or daycare? Any place where a quality game of hide-and-seek is appreciated.) The girl I avoided is delicious, or probably was about two years, three bad ex-boyfriends, and a few too many Ben&Jerrys pints ago. Just saying. She’s always wearing black, and she knows how to turn a skirt and pair of sunglasses into weapons. If I were Peanut, I’d ask her if she had a permit for them. One hand gripping a tall coffee, the other teasingly combing through disheveled, I-was-sleeping-on-the-Metro hair, she confidently charged into the building in a way I kind of admire. Of course, I admire her nonchalant tardiness even more. Less confident was the middle-aged man nearby resting against the corner of the building, finishing the final pages of a novel that had a dragon on the front. And I don’t mean Bruce Lee. I won’t judge the book by its cover, but I did judge that man. (I also startled him, I think, because he looked embarrassed. Can’t say I blame him. My first piece of advice: find a brown grocery bag and put it to good use. My second: stop reading books about dragons.) I bet his employer blocks gmail, too.

Anyway, when I returned to my desk and menacingly entered my password, I discovered that gmail access had been restored. Crisis averted. Suicide postponed. Thankfully. I’m not sure what changed—maybe a higher-up enjoys tabbed emails as much as I do (Peanut?)—but I won’t investigate. Ignorance is bliss at this place. It might not be official company policy (nothing is until inscribed under a picture of a bald eagle), but it’s true.

One more thing: my military co-worker (“Private Ryan”) just informed me that his last day is Thursday, at which point he’s moving to a different agency. Son of a b—tch. I am happy for him, I am, but I am also jealous of his impending Peanut-free lifestyle. Moreover, since he was one of the newer additions to the office, I could at least identify with him. We both recognize the insanity for what it is. (Just now, he told me he’s never been part of a more dysfunctional agency, bandying about terms like “idiodic” and “Stockholm Syndrome.” Now I’m really going to miss him, right as he was getting cool.) No more. I guess I am alone in this struggle. I might even miss his lame, non-jokes. Like I said, time to prepare for a new rotation. Or, if anybody reading this needs a table dancer, call me.

I want to comment on so many things right now that my large, tingling head just might explode. (Yes, the tingle is back, after a few days of abstinence. Also, I wasn’t using the shampoo. Heh.)  If or when it does, I hope a hulking, particularly scruffy piece lands on Peanut’s desk, maybe even taking down one or two of his decorative mugs in the process. Generally, I find our old MacGuffin kind of endearing, if not necessarily cheering as a career overseer. Not so much today. He’s not in a good mood, and, consequently, neither am I. Like an inkblot on cotton, his apparent hostility is slowly spreading outward, right through me to the internets.

You know, I don’t expect much from the elderly. Maybe a politically incorrect term or two, anachronistically and amusingly slipped into ramblings about the weather—“the clouds sure are queer this afternoon”—or an invitation to play a round of dominos. Or even, if I’m lucky, a freshly baked cookie and a U.S. Savings Bond. Instead, I get the wrath of Peanut, salt, stillborn humor and all. With every passing minute he’s reminding me more of Pete Campbell’s mom from Mad Men, that cold, WASPish/waspish bitty. (Sorry, but I always have Mad Men on the mind Monday mornings. Haven’t sampled the show in HD yet? Stop updating your Facebook page and find a way. In 1080p, the series drips with color and visual charisma. If sex were a TV show, it would be Mad Men.)  But at least Mother Campbell (a) is fictional, and (b) does not have a bone-chilling wheeze that will haunt your dreams. (Wow, even my subconscious has been invaded by the U.S. government; George W. Bush must be stopped.) I know that I’m in little position to denigrate the guttural noises of others, what with my recent spate of coughing spasms—four weeks and counting!—but Peanut’s gasp of a laugh is horrifying. It’s so rough I’m starting to wonder if his throat is lined with sandpaper.   

[Disclaimer: Peanut is probably a great father and an even better grandfather. I imagine he gives money to the needy, buys his wife fresh flowers, and cuddles stray kittens when given the chance. I don’t mean to impugn his personal character, just his, um, leadership style as it relates to me. And, really, I’m not the easiest guy to coach. Ask my dad. So, Peanut, if you ever read this, know that I do like you. I just don’t like working for you.]

A few minutes after my arrival  this morning, Peanut sauntered out of the office, surrounded by an entourage of five men in uniform black suits, none of whom donned iridescent shirts or ties, which, of course, signaled to me they weren’t from this division. At first I thought that he might have defaulted on some gambling debts—I have documented his penchant for lottery tickets before, plus I might have been running up a tab at the track under his name—but I learned later that he went to Capitol Hill, not down to the docks. (Not sure why he was flanked by Reservoir Dogs.) I’m uncertain which committees he visited while scavenging around my old stomping grounds in Northeast, but considering that he broke into “We Shall Overcome” multiple times Friday afternoon, I trust his trip had something to do with civil rights. I wish I were exaggerating, as do thousands of demonstrators from the 60s who were probably rolling over in their graves all weekend, but I am not. I alerted my friends in the area to keep an eye out for him—“look for a parrot circling nearby”—but as far as I know, no sightings occurred. Too bad, too, because I enjoy the validation that comes from showcasing something or someone I’ve chronicled on this blog to others, as it proves I’m neither entirely delusional nor pulling a Stephen Glass.  

Earlier, I requested a meeting with Peanut to discuss my projects, or, more accurately, my lack of projects. And by my projects I mean my feelings, naturally. (In terms he’d understand: “I need you to reach out to me…offline…and loop me in…so we can sync up…”) In between his jaunts around the city, however, I’ve snagged all of 90 seconds of his time, a good portion of which was lost to his wheezing. (I made no jokes, mind you, so I’m not sure why he was laughing. I’m not wearing the tight pants, either, so I’m assuming his cackle had nothing to do with me. Maybe he just happened to recall a strong Bob Hope zinger.) So, I guess I’m out of luck today. Next time, I’ll have to send the meeting request with some gold Dubloons.

Moving along, Lurch—the tall glass of nobody-picks-me-for-kickball who works in my area—continues to pass by me about every three minutes, occasionally glancing in my direction. I might go f!#$% crazy. If I were a sixteen-year-old girl, I bet I could file a restraining order. (And I could probably pull off glitter spray, too, but that’s another story.) I want to suggest to him that he head over to the mall and join the rest of the aimless circlers —take Peanut, too—but at the moment I’ve got more irritating fish to fry, like my new office nemesis: Baseball guy.

Actually, I’ll call this guy Spike. With a mesh of hair shooting from his scalp like tall, unkempt blades of grass, he evokes something along the lines of an economically drawn Nickelodean cartoon character. Whenever Spike makes eye contact with me, he corners me—or, if I’m seated, lords over me at my desk—then, without hesitation (no questions about how I’m doing, etc., etc.), pummels me with random baseball news and stats, reeling off numbers and names like the motormouth from the Micromachines commercials of my childhood. It’s almost refreshing how singled-minded he is—kudos to him for not riffing on the usual office trivialities, I suppose—yet it’s weird, too. I’m no fan of small talk, but at least I can execute it well. Just check with the middle-aged doll of a lady, always radiant in navy blue and pearls, who bumps into me at the copier every once in a while; our conversation is so overworked that that I’m ready to pay it time and a half.

Spike, though, doesn’t drone on about a “case of the Mondays” or anything of like; he just breathlessly races to demonstrate his affinity for and deep understanding of the Eastern Division of the National League. It’s not just that he’s chipmunk-fast, either. His facial expressions, for example, are straight out of the Harvey Dent school of bzzzt. Weirder, I’ve given no indication that I’d like to discuss anything, let alone baseball, with him. (“Sorry, dude, you must be mistaken; George Will sits down the hall.”) I accept that baseball is America’s pastime—or is it squeezing credit and shuttering banks? I can’t keep up—and, well, I’m an average fan wishing I were more. That I traveled to New York a few weeks ago to catch one of the final games at Yankee Stadium should give me some credibility, right? Nevertheless, I don’t have pennants above my computer or bats behind glass in my bedroom, so I’m not sure why a student of the game like Spike has chosen me to torment. Bizarre. 

Initially, these encounters would unnerve me a little, as I would alternate between weak attempts at feigning interest/knowledge and even weaker attempts at faking a kind of I-get-it laughter. But over the previous month each assault has left me a little more debilitated than the last. I can’t even bring myself to fake-laugh anymore, opting instead for the famous Scruff staccato guffaw meant to communicate that I am simply not into the conversation, probably never was and desperately want out. (My most recent blind date should be very familiar with it.) Now, whenever I see Spike on the horizon (given his hair, it’s not exactly difficult), I try to duck for cover—still haven’t hidden behind a column for this guy, but don’t be surprised when it happens—which seemed to have been working, until about an hour ago when I entered the restroom. Immediately, I noticed the reflection of his long, grassy hair in the mirror and tried to pivot towards escape before he saw me. (I’d rather wet myself, that’s how bad these interludes are.) He must have sensed fear and opportunity, though, because he turned his head right as I turned mine, leading to the kiss of death—eye contact—and, in a matter of speaking, my striking out. The game was over.

Defeated and preemptively exasperated, I proceeded to the neighboring urinal, gritted my teeth, and started counting the little squares on the walls. Between Spike, a pasty red-headed guy who similarly resembles a Nickelodeon creation, Peanut (remember the stall-shacked civil war battles?), and a Spanish-speaking cleaning lady with no sense of propriety, I’ve had more uncomfortable restroom conversations in the four weeks I’ve been here than ever before. To be honest, I’m not even sure what was said this time—something about the Phillies, something about wanting to be best man at my wedding, I don’t know—but I remember how it felt. With this on top The Wheez, I won’t be sleeping for weeks.

A couple of hours ago, I was sitting at my desk, senses and emotions dulled as usual, when all of the sudden a flurry of conversation, some might even say cheers, exploded in the office, which I knew could mean only one thing: Peanut was back. A day early, too! (So much for my plan to catch a matinee for lunch.) The way everyone was reacting, you’d think Barack Obama had stopped by for a cup of coffee. (Or maybe John McCain, since he and Peanut are closer to each other in census brackets. Besides, a Democrat at my agency? Please. It’s not like I work at HUD.) I was somewhat gladdened by Peanut’s return, as well, if not quite to the frenzied level of others—I declined to toss rose petals or throw up air fives—because I figured I might get some time with him to discuss my, well, career development; i.e. I could stop counting the hairs on my arms and do something meaningful with my day. I wouldn’t say that I have done nothing worth writing about here…but a management consultant might.

Well, Peanut wished me a good morning, then promptly forgot I existed. No notes. No calls. No reassuring nods. Not even a growl in my general direction. Nothing. (I just want to be your first mate, captain!) The day is still young, sure, but unless I hide under his desk and surprise him, I doubt we’ll meet today. (This is what is called foreshadowing, I guess, as I did end up doing a bit of hiding a little while later.) Perhaps it’s just as well, because my morale has a taken a turn south.

First, a coworker of mine, who comes into the office only once a week—the sexy, carefree life of a contractor, eh?—stopped by for a few minutes to chat about my extension. You know, the last four digits of my phone number. Granted, I can talk about almost anything, and I’ll probably take the contrarian viewpoint—“On the other hand, an extension with three numbers might be preferable”—but even I struggled, which might have had something to do with the fact that I was trying to minimize the CNET screen about Blue-ray I had been reading. (“It’s for the office.”) This guy is nice, but, unfortunately for him, he’s also a puppet. He is wearing the same cacophony of stripes every time I see him, which I’m confident he bought at a J. Crew outlet circa 2005, and he carries himself as if strings were controlling his every move. And I don’t mean figurative strings in the but-aren’t-we-all-puppets kind of way—rent Being John Malkovich—I mean I can practically see the fishing line connected to his limbs. When he talks, his mouth parts in a very wooden, mechanical manner, and his words don’t match the movement of his lips. So, yes, he’s a puppet, and possibly being dubbed in English from another language.

Puppet’s not bad. He’s very courteous, and he comes across as awkward and timid in meetings. Because I always root for the underdog, I’m on board with him. Or his ventriloquist, I’m not sure. The other co-worker of mine, with whom Puppet spoke after finishing our scintillating chat, is harder to digest. I won’t nickname him. (What’s the point? You won’t read about him much, I assure you.) All I remember overhearing before blacking out is something about “dropping a deuce” followed by a joke about pushing one of the window washers—they’re stiiiill here—off the ledge, um, to a horrible death. (No, push me first, please.) Perhaps I’m not much better, but I promise I won’t start joking about killing people, other than myself, here. I additionally promise that I will not be joking at all with this guy, the Blackberry in an office full of iPhones. No, let me clarify: he’s the old, crappy model of the Blackberry in an office full of newer Blackberries and maybe one or two iPhones, one of which might be 3G. Sadly for me, this whole interlude sent me spiraling. It’s moments like these when I question yet again why I even work here. I mean, I didn’t graduate from ECPI (is that condescending?) and I’m not particularly keen on mediocrity, so it might be time for a change. This string of thoughts caused me to panic, so I grabbed The Golden Calf and headed for my safe place: Chik-Fil-A. For breakfast! A brisk walk through Ballston usually does the trick.

CFA was great—I expected nothing less—except for one little hitch. When I went to refill my drink, Karla, who wasn’t at the counter when I purchased my meal, shot me a skeptical look, marked something on the side of my cup, then hesitantly proceeded to refresh my beverage. Not only did she tag my Styrofoam, but she also handed it back to me with the cheapest, most insincere “My pleasure,” I’ve ever heard at CFA, even a mall CFA (they’re always worse). A few seconds later—who’s got a learning disability now, b*tches?—I thought I had figured out the reason. You see, Karla, who is cute in her own way—code for I would marry her and shower her with diamonds and blog poetry if only she spoke English and didn’t work at the mall—was present yesterday when I dined at CFA for lunch. (That’s right, two days in a row. I’m a guy who knows what he wants: chicken, waffle fries, and ceartain death-by-40.) She served me my food and later refilled my drink. What a difference a day makes; yesterday she was a warm summer afternoon (with gentle curls), today a bitter, winter night (with service-elevator frizz). Honestly, I’ve concluded that, since Karla was absent from the counter when I ordered my breakfast meal today, she assumed that I showed up for a refill with my cup from yesterday. Maybe I’m wrong, but I think it’s a possibility. Why else mark it?

I speak from experience. Shameless though it may be, back in the halcyon days of middle school, my best friend and I would order drinks from the Taco Bell in the mall near his house, then clean the cups and hide them in the furniture displays at Sears for subsequent retrieval and additional refills. Like several days later. It’s the only time I’ve ever used Sears furniture. (You know, if Barry O were to have stopped by earlier, he’d understand what I mean; all these small-towners clinging to their guns, religion and Sears.) Even more despicable, sometimes we would “borrow” money from the fountains in the center of the mall, coins supposedly collected and donated to charity, to purchase Seven-Layer Burritos. Which we would consume with freshly refilled drinks after liberating our cups from cheap furniture purgatory. (Yeah, we loved Taco Bell. Still do, although now I’ve moved on to the Taco Bell “Bistro”—it has can lighting!—on Route 7, and I try to visit only quarterly.) In our defense, SLBs cost a mere dollar back then, so we didn’t have to fish out too many coins, which was good for us, because our sideshow (one person creating a diversion while the other got his arm went) was always a bit of a stretch.

After walking back to my building from CFA, I remained outside for a minute to finish a phone call, until, much to my dismay, Peanut came barreling out in my direction. Of course, it’s not a big deal for me to have left, and Peanut probably wouldn’t have noticed me anyway (he certainly doesn’t when I’m sitting twenty feet away), but, true to form, I overreacted and jumped behind a column near the entrance doors, then continued to inch my way deliberately around it in an attempt to position myself out of Peanut’s eyesight as he passed. (If you’re having trouble picturing this, think of the Pink Panther.) Don’t worry, I tried to play it cool—I’m just a regular guy checking my email on my phone as I slink around the contour of this column! Hey, maybe my back itches!—but I’m not sure I sold it. Serves me right. Sometimes I do ridiculous, ridiculous things.

Now at my desk again, I’ve come full circle, back to listening to inane comments from my coworkers. Private Ryan randomly interrupted my typing this blog post (the nerve) to tell me “I just felt the earth move under my feet.” At first I thought he was singing the Carole King song—oh, what a treat that would’ve been; forget dessert—but, even sillier, he was suggesting that the building’s foundation had actually been shaken. Hmmmm. I told him that, no, it means he’s in love (zing), but he wasn’t having it. Blank stare followed by his repeating the same line to someone else, which is what I’ve come to expect. I’ll give him a pass, if only because he tries hard, and I think he deserves some reward for his efforts. (As do I…sometimes.) He’s genial enough, and he’s always offering to help. Can’t really ask for too much more, right? Somebody should tell Karla.

Also, a different coworker—the same guy who minutes before described another foreign contractor as “the one who looks like a terrorist”; very classy—asked me if I minded his leaving his jacket on my shelf as he headed into a meeting. I said that of course I didn’t, as long as he didn’t mind my borrowing it when I went to lunch, because, well, brown is my color and it’s cold outside. Hilarity and hugs ensued. It really is chilly outside today. Walking to CFA I almost had to embrace myself as a defensive measure against the wind. Or maybe I just needed to feel secure. Maybe both.

A few minutes ago, my new Blackberry was hand-delivered to me, which, of course made me feel very important and valued—something quite alien to me at this job. What…is…this…warm sensation? Is this what respect feels like? Service right to my desk is a nice touch. Like when the teller addresses you as “sir” at the bank or the Chick-Fil-A cashier returns your refilled drink with “my pleasure.” It doesn’t take much for me, does it? Give me a smile and I’ll give you the world.

I better let myself cool down before I get too cocky and demanding—“I need these papers on my desk organized and stacked according to number of characters on the page, please, and where the @#$% is my lemon water?”—but at least I won’t be locking myself in the corner stall for a good cry later this afternoon. (Sorry, Stan, I’ll catch you tomorrow.)

Nevertheless, re-cork the champagne because my feelings are mixed. I do not like Blackberries. I don’t just “nothing” them; I really don’t like them. (Same goes for VW Beetles, Mountain Dew, and cats.) And now I have a new one, shining brightly in its plastic wrap, staring back at me from my shelf. Wall-Eeeee?

This must be what it’s like to be a father who realizes his newborn is ugly and small and much less cool than the child he already has—you’ll always be number one son, iPhone—yet knows he can’t really do anything about it and must carry them both around for the rest of his life. (I’m sure my dad had such a feeling…with my brother.) Ok, maybe it’s apparent I’m not yet a parent—at least I didn’t make a joke about red-heads, right?—but you get the point. The iPhone is so sleek, sexy and versatile, and its superiority over Research In Motion’s sorry brick is even more evident when placed alongside. And if I didn’t already think I was going sterile from all the cellular waves traveling near my nethers, having two phones in my pockets certainly can’t improve my chances of passing on this legacy. On other hand, I may have established myself as unfit to procreate a few sentences back, so maybe this is as it should be.

To think, little over a year ago I didn’t even own a smart phone. I’ve now owned three. At this rate I should be stomping my executive arse at Savoy by springtime—and visiting my fertility specialist by fall.

I was quickly heading towards disaster this morning for a variety of reasons, not least of which being the fact that the famed tingling of my shampoo has started to taper off: as with all other stimulants—caffeine, exercise, Sarah Palin—I am developing a tolerance, and consequently receive a little less kick with each use, which saddens me more than it should. I need that tingle, I really do. Who knows what I’ll turn to next. Glue? Lasers? Fight Club?

(Speaking of lasers, as of last night around 9pm, I am obsessed with the idea of buying a Blu-Ray player, mostly so that I can watch the newly released restored edition of The Godfather Trilogy. Well, that, and Lost. Investment logic that’s so sound, I’m surprised no one at Treasury has called me this week.)

Other than the diminishing tingle, I hit a few more snags before arriving in Ballston. I mis-shaved my barely legal beard, trimming one side shorter than the other. There goes Halloween! (I’m just not sure anyone will accept me as Al from Tool Time with imbalanced scruff.) Then, I wolfed down a tasteless cup of yogurt—see you in Hell, Stoneyfield!—forgot to bring my new read of the week with me out the door, and, between scowling at CNN’s This Morning (ugh) and rinsing the non-taste of bad yogurt out of my mouth with a spoonful of peanut butter, I found myself a half hour behind schedule. With Peanut gone through Thursday (not Wednesday as I previously thought), I am not too concerned. I mean, I’m now thirty minutes delayed in what, writing this blog post? Actually, I have taken on few things this morning—you know, like Terrorists,  naturally—but I’m still bored. One can try to pick the lock of the boss’s door only so many times. Peanut’s absence has thrown a big, fat wrench into my goal of being significantly more productive this week, as he left me little to do and has been out of reach. Now how am I going to stay on track to take over this agency by Christmas? (“Chik-Fil-A Fridays” being my first order of business. What’s better than wearing a golf shirt at the end of the week? Wearing a golf shirt while eating a delicious chicken sandwich.)

Even with the uneven start to the day, things are looking up. The weather is great. (I’ve now discussed the weather on this blog at least five times. AARP, please send me my check already. You can see why I’m a hit at McDonald’s in the morning.) My metro ride was quick and easy, improved, I’m sure, by the distraction of watching last night’s stellar episode of The Shield. Best of all, when I arrived at the office I learned that my agency wouldn’t be moving to Maryland—not pretty, expensive, cocktail-party Maryland, but ugly, low-income, there’s-still-a-“Big Kmart”-next-to-the-office-and-people-are-selling-drugs-in-its-parking-lot Maryland—as had been rumored. Huge, huge, huge relief. I never realized how much I didn’t mind Ballston until I faced the prospect of inching through traffic every day through interminable construction projects, past Starbucks-sipping commuters, most of whom sip better than they drive, and two distinct Hardees (two too many). That one piece of news has changed my entire outlook on my job. Well played, government. Well played.

Just received a call from my brother. As has become routine in these situations, I grabbed the Golden Calf and headed out to the park neighboring my building, where I like to pace, talk, and plan world domination (not necessarily in that order). As most people who’ve been around me know, I find it hard enough to sit still at any time but particularly when on the phone. My neurosis compels me to walk and talk, which means I tend to disappear from my desk throughout the day as I run up my AT&T bill. I’m not sure if anyone notices or cares. (Aw, I sound like the girl at the back of the dance, who sags against the wall, disappointed that no one appreciates how much time she spent carefully arranging the baby’s breath in her hair.) I wonder if people assume I am attending a meeting—plausible enough given everyone here loves to gather in a conference room; Washington could be burning and we’d all huddle around a conference call before we’d evacuate—or, worse, feeding a drinking problem. (Soon enough, my friends!) So, either I’m a great employee…or an alcoholic. (Why can’t I be both? Don Draper, at your service.)

My brother and I discussed, among other things, the financial crisis, and concluded that (a) Nancy Pelosi is cold, wet blanket of a woman, and (b) pundits must stop referring to “Main Street” all the time; it makes me think of Disneyland, and we all know that Roger Iger is doing just fine. Even though I feel like I’ve been talking about the Paulson Rescue Plan all day every day, I will refrain from commenting on it here. My last foray into political writing in the blogosphere didn’t end well for me—I may have even called for someone to drop off a plate of minimuffins to Harriet Miers, that poor, out-of-her-league, legal grannie—so I’ll steer clear of all things Capitol Hill. Except the interns, of course.

Finally, a few minutes ago, my mom emailed me a warning to take care in shielding this blog from certain people. Like children and the devout. Or, more likely, Peanut and company. Point well taken, yet I don’t expect any problems. (Osama Bin Laden hasn’t been caught yet, that’s all I’m saying.) Official disclaimer: I love America, and this agency, and old, grizzled pirates who sometimes call me by my last name, if my last name had one less letter than it does.

The way wordpress displayes “–” on this site, making them appear more like hyphens than the dashes they are supposed to be, bothers me beyond belief, to the point that I am adding this post merely out of frustration.

Update: I’ve changed the blog theme in attempt to solve this problem. If my predilection for watching old episodes of Growing Pains hadn’t tipped you off already–Maggie Seaver, I love you, baby!–clearly I am in need of some new hobbies at night. Or at least some new medication.

How do I know it’s going to a rough day? Because the contractor who is visiting the office right now just piped into the filler conversation between two other co-workers with, “It reminds me of that Dane Cook sketch…”

Triple bzzzt.

Also, the window washers–who, apparently are giving us the cleanest windows of all time, four days of work and counting–are outside scrubbing away without safety harnesses. One of them is even standing, or teetering as it were, on the railing. I am getting kind of sick watching, having been hit with the same feeling I get when I use my camera near a high cliff or ledge. Of course, given my legal background, I am also filled with the sweet siren song of potential tort, so I guess it’s win-lose.

[Channeling my inner Zack Morris…]

This might not be a responsible move, but I am taking a break from the “Security Awareness” Powerpoint training that I have been tasked to complete this afternoon. Online. Can you think of anything else you’d rather do less? Either can I. (I’d even prefer cleaning my bathroom; at least the ammonia fumes might help me forget this place.) Which is why I’m ignoring the barrage of Internet Explorer—I know, Internet Explorer! Kill me. Um, 1996 called and wants its web browser back—dialogue boxes warning against navigating to another site lest I miss something important. It’s a gamble I’m willing to take. Sorry, America. Besides, I’m pretty sure I already knew that I should lock my screen when leaving my desk and avoid foreigners, I mean foreign agents, when standing earnestly on the Metro platform. (“Pick me; I need a new car!”) Come to think of it, I bet the credit card bank where I worked in high school was better protected than this building. Types the guy who just minimized the flashing red window requesting his attention.

The training itself is probably worse than you’re imagining. Then again, it’s not quite as bad as the last security training I received—live!—during which I was treated to no fewer than six slides featuring bald eagles and probably twice as many featuring the World Trade Center, followed by pithy slogans like “SEC RITY without U is nothing.” It sure isn’t. If I remember correctly, I also fell asleep during that session and, at one point, made a very loud “wooo” sound with my phone. (Sounds like someone leaked my Employee-of-the-month blurb in advance!) Fortunately for me, I can access today’s training on my Back-to-the-Future Dell—still awaiting my Doc Brown, incidentally—instead of having to physically present myself in the agency’s most dour location, downtown, a building so insipid that a hearse was waiting for me when I left it.

Speaking of insipid, as I was finishing that previous sentence, my ex-military coworker started a conversation with me about the window washers outside, the ones I mentioned last week whose unattended ladders awesomely and inexplicably descended out of the morning mist to the landing a few feet away. With Peanut and almost everyone else from my division out of the office today—kegs and high school students should be arriving aaaaany minute—I can’t very well ignore this guy, no matter how much I am inclined at times. Is it a social disorder to prefer blogging over real, face-to-face communication? If so, pay me disability and let me get back to what I was typing.

My coworker—I guess I should name him, now that he’s made repeated appearances here; I’ll call him Private Ryan, you know, military/covert connections and all (and “the Man from U.N.C.L.E.” is too cumbersome)—typically uses me as a springboard for his awful, awful jokes. (Please, if you are like “Ryan,” stop it right now. Unless, like me, you are writing quasi-anonymously to nobody, in which case springboard away.) Today, however, we are having a fairly normal conversation. And, to prove that I am not as horrible as this blog apparently indicates—I appreciate the reminder, Bishop—I’ll admit that I’ve enjoyed the back-and-forth. Anything that’s not served to me in bullet points or office clichés immediately brings a relieved smile to my newly bearded—yes, I’m growing it again; prepare yourselves, ladies—face. So, as it turns out, Ryan takes the bus every day, has lived in pretty much every country that ends in “stan,” and loves the way cool autumn breezes tickle his neck. Or is that Cathy? Now I’m getting confused, not to mention borderline pornographic. [Deleting what was supposed to be the following paragraph now.] Let me refocus.

Anyway, Ryan is a nice guy. He is. And, let’s be honest, I’m not (I suppose), so maybe this is good for me. (“Ryan, you are my Centrum Silver.”) Plus he just told me how to skip to the end of my “training” without consequence. If I weren’t emotionally stunted, or under court orders to not to touch strangers, I just might hug him.

Next up: ordering my new Blackberry. The Golden Calf will not be happy. Either will I. I hate Blackberries, almost as much as I hate Dells. And Kittens. And Christmas. Oh, oh, I think my heart just contracted three sizes.

To end on a positive note, which, as I promised earlier today, is something I will attempt a little more frequently in this space, mostly to alleviate the concerns of my friends, family and doctors: this has been a good day. The meeting I attended this morning wasn’t too bad—I would say I’ve started to feel numb in these things, but that would require feeling—and I even succeeded in working several maddening agency favorites into my one comment during the presentation. I believe I said “reach out to” and “loop him in” and “we can discuss this offline” all in the space of fifteen seconds. Not even clever in my banality, I’ll admit, but I achieved a milestone—another cliché!—that I had set. Better yet, I didn’t fall asleep, or get caught reading the Drudge Report, nor did my pants fall down, nor did anyone mistake me for an intern. It’s like Thanksgiving came early this year.

Give me a cold drink and a half hour of Growing Pains, and I might stop selling classified information right this instant, that’s how satisfied I am.

Blurg. My plan for this morning didn’t include writing here. And my contingency plan—you know, if I decided to write after all; I always have a contingency plan, given that I generally skip A and go straight for B all day—was to write something positive, since everyone around me who has read these sad diatribes seems to be worrying about me, as if I’m typing with one hand and cutting myself with the other. (Oops, I’m bleeding on the space bar again.) I wouldn’t be surprised if the crew from A&E’s Intervention were waiting for me after lunch. For the record: I am neither despondent nor clinically depressed. A little manic, sure, but isn’t that merely the consequence of complexity? Am I the only one around here who’s watched A Beautiful Mind?

So, I’m great. The weather is beautiful. My iPhone is receiving 3G without a hitch. I had a nice, long weekend filled with randomly great things, like the National Book Festival, Z-Burgers, and Mad Men. My pants, which I wrote about so woefully only a few days ago, have either stretched or were never too tight in the first place; I’ve even received compliments. Maybe I don’t know how pants are supposed to fit? Is bulge the new black? (Too far?)

All in all, life is fine.

On the other hand—I am nothing if not contrarian—I am so tired that I can’t remember what it was like to sleep last night, assuming I did, and, I’ll just say it: works sucks today.

I could tell you that Peanut came with a box of pumpkin spice donuts and new jeweled peg leg, or that Cathy slapped me on the a*s as I skanked by in my Class-A-Felony pants, but I’d be lying. (I can’t just pass off my fondest dreams as reality anymore. Which means it might be time for me to reveal that I wasn’t actually an extra in the Pippy Longstocking movie.)

When I arrived this morning I was confronted with all sorts of annoying things, including the discovery that I did not complete something correctly on Thursday (I’ll stay vague so that nobody reading this feels less secure…just don’t ride the Metro tomorrow morning, that’s all I’m saying), missed an important meeting Friday (sorry guys, I had cupcakes to eat and an irresponsibly comfortable couch to sleep on), and that I will probably be bored to the point of insanity this week while Peanut is out of the office. Until Thursday, apparently. (What, no e-card to let me know?)

You’d think I’d relish my chance to be starboard without with Ballston’s number one pirate, but, really, I had come into work today determined to involve myself in something interesting and engaging. Other than this blog (of course). Yet here I am, once again, keying out my frustration, waiting to attend yet another sanity-challenging meeting. Oh wait, I’m actually late to that meeting. Oops.

Ok, maybe somebody should call A&E.