Who Am I?
I’m a twenty-something. Two years ago, I accepted a job because I needed to get the hell out of my last one. The single best thing that’s happened to me in the two years I’ve worked here is the barista at the Starbucks downstairs learning my name. Now he calls me J-Rod and I roll my eyes while inspecting the color of my latte to make sure they remembered my extra shot of espresso.
This site will be a day-to-day recounting of what I hear from my cubicle, my 40 square feet of hell.
Who Are They?
These are the people who surround me in my hell. Whether or not they know they’re in hell remains unclear. I’ve chosen to change their names to protect their dignity (and also my job).
Gordon Ramsay is my boss’s boss. He bursts into fits of rage without warning. When he has computer troubles, he bangs his computer mouse on his desk repeatedly, like a kid trying to get the last quarter out of his piggybank. He eats fast food for lunch every day. With a temper and diet like his, I imagine we’re one “blue screen of death” away from a heart attack.
Phil Dunphy’s Lame Cousin is my boss. He’s a suburban dad through and through. He’s like Modern Family’s Phil Dunphy, but without the charm or hair. The most exciting night of his year is Halloween because he pours a shot of whiskey in his coffee and walks the neighborhood with his children. He’s the type of guy who asks you to excuse his language before he says words like “crap.”
America Ferrara is a new mom in her early thirties who’s part Persian or something. She’s like America Ferrara in that she’s exotic, but basically just an ordinary white girl.
Carson Kressley is a hoity-toity east-coast prepschool graduate who thinks he’s better than everyone. His daily lunch is a cheese stick and a can of tuna that he dumps in a drinking glass and eats with a fork. This diet amounts to roughly 270 calories, which explains why, when there’s free food in the kitchen, he’ll race to the kitchen like a housewife trying to get the last Tickle Me Elmo in the store on Black Friday.
Grace. Oh, sweet, clueless Grace. If ignorance is bliss, Grace spends her days high as a kite. Her alias is ironic because she approaches nothing in life with grace. Named after the idiotic secretary from “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” who spends her days sniffing rubber cement and providing dull, useless commentary to those around her. She once made a mistake and, after 5 minutes of me explaining her error, she threw her hands up and said, “however it happened, it happened.”
Ellen Page is a cool, young lesbian. She’ll often email or Snapchat me with commentary on our neighbors’ shenanigans. She’d probably enjoy this blog.
Phyllis is a good, old-fashioned Midwestern grandma. She’s quiet and soft-spoken, but she is always looking for the latest gossip. Nothing concerns her more than the day’s weather and how it will affect her afternoon walk. She develops a far-fetched theory for everything. “The internet is slow today. Do you think it’s because there’s that concert in town?”
Roseanne Barr is loud, crass, and she loves to talk shit. She’s been here for 19 years and all gossip comes and goes through her desk. It’s the Grand Central Station of dirt. She’s got the loudest voice and an alarming smoker’s cough, but if she’s whispering at her desk, you know she’s spillin’ tea.
Mrs. O’Leary is so named for Mrs. Catherine O’Leary. Legend has it Mrs. O’Leary’s cow kicked over a lantern 145 years ago and ignited the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, desecrating half the city and leaving nothing but sadness in her wake. Our Mrs. O’Leary is in her early sixties and has said she hopes to die at the age of 72 because “at least I’ll have something to look forward to.” She spends at least 25% of every day on her smoke breaks, where she’ll smoke two cigarettes back-to-back, and another 25% on personal phone calls where she yells things like “Christ on a cracker!” and “for fuck’s sake” at her family.