Mortification Master: Part II

I’d like to start of this post by saying thank you to everyone that emailed me in regards to Becca these past few days (see last post) and those who donated money and canned food. I do not want to post about her until she is ready to unveil her extreme makeover, which the way things are going, will not be for another month or two. I will say that she is creeping along slowly and she is RAVENOUS at all times, which is a sign of her willingness to live and my willingness to feed her as much as it takes to fatten her beautiful self up. I am happy, albeit lacking a bit of sleep as a result of this added responsibility. Thank you all for being awesome.

Happy Valentine's Day!

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Do you all remember that time I went to the community office bathroom to urinate only to find I had no toilet paper in my stall? Then I went with my underwear down by my ankles to another stall but got caught in the process of crossing by that girl from accounting I don't like? I somehow figured that would be the most embarrassing thing that could happen to me at work but of course, I was wrong.

I’m not sure if this is general office culture but in my office when there’s ever a birthday, we pass around a card stealthily inside a file folder that looks like this and have everyone sign it, wishing the birthday employee the best and blah blah blah.

It’s supposed to be a secret of sorts that everyone is in on, including the person in question, who is expected to act surprised once they get the card and some cake before the end of the day. A few months back, I received a file folder with two birthday cards inside of it. One was for my gay coworker whom I adore and another for my favorite person in the office, Mr. Smith.

Mr. Smith is a sixty-something gentleman who says things like, “How are you this fine day, Annah?” and “Good morning, young lady.” He is part of that rare breed of men who are quickly dissipating into a pool of douche bags and boys who think texting is an acceptable form of communication. I quickly signed Angel’s card and then Mr. Smith’s before getting back to work with the following sincere wish (not original card, obviously).

Later on in the day our receptionist swung by my office to inquire if I had had the chance to write in both cards and the following conversation ensued.

Me: Yeah, I signed the birthday cards. Thanks, girl.

Receptionist: You mean you signed Angel’s birthday card and Mr. Smith’s get well card.

Me: They were both birthday cards. They both had balloons in the front.

Receptionist: Yes, they did. But Mr. Smith’s card was a get well card. He’s in the hospital and the card was sent today with some flowers.

Me: Why is he in the hospital?

Receptionist: He had a heart attack.

If you are wondering, Mr. Smith is alive and healthy and back to work in one piece.

(The same cannot be said for my dignity.)