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In the notice for the company’s Christmas do, the only instructions regarding dress code was “No denim and no trainers.”
Looking into my closet, my choices were t-shirts and jeans, two summer dresses and one little black dress. Seriously, it’s the middle of a frigging winter. So I decided to wear my normal office attire.
Come 6pm and I was going about getting some last minute work done, I walk past girls coming out of the toilets all glammed up in shiny dresses, killer heels, full make-up and smelly perfume. All the guys had shirts and trousers on.
As I rushed past, they called out, “Dora, you’re not coming to the party?!”
And I thought, shit, how am I supposed to know “no denim and trainers” is supposed to be translated as come in your best sexy outfit?
A little later, someone else asks, “When are you changing?”
I was later horrified to find that one member of my team had went to the salon to have her hair done, and everyone was caked in their finest make-up, slinkiest dresses, and highest heels. I showed up feeling every bit like the cleaning lady.
Frump. Frump. Frump. Frump. That word kept running through my head.
It was only the next day when Nasty’s mom tells me that, oh, it doesn’t matter what the flyers say, girls ALWAYS dress up for the office Christmas do. To which Nasty chimed in yes, that is true. At which I said, then why for fuck’s sake are you telling me that NOW?
To give myself some credit, I did have make-up on, which in itself was an incredible feat, because that was the first time I’ve put on make-up since that ballet performance in kindergarten when my teacher did my face up for the stage and I was so horrified by the way I looked in the mirror that I never touched make-up again. I don’t see the point in spending my hard-earned money on looking like a South American parrot.
So my workmate decided to play make-up on me and instructed me to look this way and that way and to smack and pout my lips like so. But when it came to mascara time, I am apparently too make-up-handicapped to be able to look up, keep your eyes open, and STOP BLINKING! Seriously, I can’t not blink when someone is brandishing a stick with black icky muck millimeters from my eyeballs. She eventually gave up exasperated and solemnly declared that mascara has failed and stop rubbing your eyes!
By the end of it, it wasn’t bad at all, but I felt I look exactly like what I would normally look like after I’ve had a few drinks and get what Nasty calls the “Asian Glow”. Maybe I should just start having a few drinks in the morning, then I’d be all set.
But anyways, the message here is, to anyone as unsuspecting as I am in matters like these: Girls ALWAYS dress up for the office Christmas do.
Two girls in the office were trying to get the printer to print on headed paper via manual feed.
R: It’s not going in!
T: What do you mean?
R: It’s there but it’s just not sucking it in!
T: Right, now try again.
R: Ok, I’ll try and push it in this time.
T: Yeah, push!
R: Oh, it’s sucking!
I know, anything for entertainment in the office…
Having no internet at home, my new job isn’t helping.
Looking through and signing the Computer Security Policy, this is some of the many things it says:
“The use of personal screen savers and wallpaper backgrounds are prohibited.”
“Access to the Internet through the use of company facilities is provided for business purposes. Access to the web is monitored and screened in accordance with company policy.”
“Do not use internet based email accounts (such as Hotmail, Yahoo etc).”
“Within the company, websites are categorised as:
1. Business related – allowed at all times
2. Non-business related – Accessible, however, a message will suggest you should access outside work time
3. Inappropriate – not allowed at any time”
“It is company policy to monitor the use of the internet by employees and to record which websites they access.”
Bloody hell. Not even bloody wallpaper.
I stood on the Central line platform (the only Tube line that goes all the way across London) behind a wall of people four deep, and watched three trains briefly stop and whizz by without me on it, packed and spilling people everytime the doors open.
That was my initiation into morning rush hour in the great city of London. Weeeeee!
… … …
When I was finally shown my desk and left on my own, I sat down and looked around at my typical office possessions of computer, pen-holder, phone, file-holders, drawers, white board, and calendar. I stretched my legs out underneath me, propped my elbows onto the expansive surface, and my first thought was, “Damn! It’s GREAT to be working again!“
Believe me, you don’t hear that very often, and that’s probably the only time you’ll ever hear it from me.
If and when things become difficult, I hope I’ll always remember how utterly defeating and depressing it was to be without work. I hope you’ll never have to know.
… … …
On my way to my second day at work, I sat down on the train and saw this right in front of me:
I wanted to raise my fist and say, “Damn you! You don’t know what it’s like to be out of work!”
Love those someecards. So many of them are so politically incorrect it’s hilarious…
Well well. I’m now sitting in the office. My last 15 minutes at this job.
I’ve been kept very busy the past week. Work seemed endless. And I went out almost every single night to say goodbye to people.
So much so that now I’ve become sick. Cold, sore throat, the works. Great.
Packing has been a disaster. I tried once. Then I gave up.
So Halloween tonight, and the hockey girls are throwing together a farewell dinner and some crazy-costume-stuff afterwards.
So dudes and dudettes, Happy Halloween.
And my job?
As the card says: TGIF, motherfuckers.
Goodbye.
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