Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Office Space
My office building has its share of limitations. Temperature control, for instance, is one of them. Last winter I actually managed to blow out a fuse trying to operate two space heaters at once; though I was wearing a sweater, my winter coat, and a rather fetching scarf, my hands could still not maintain the minimum temperature necessary to type without accidentally converting my legal documents into e.e. cummings poems. (Luckily I was able to blame this mishap on a temp, who later went on to win the Bollingen Prize.) In the summer, our offices get hotter than R. Kelly at a Girl Scout camp, and it is not unusual to see coworkers walking around in various states of undress poorly suited to their ages and/or body types. Suffice it to say that it is difficult to comment intelligently on the complexities of qualified immunity while distracted by the man-eating pit stains of Barry from Human Resources.
One thing I do love, however, is the fact that my office is right across the street from a public plaza, where representatives of a full spectrum of humanity gather each day to protest, panhandle, or just eat their Lunchables. So I get to clean out my e-mail inbox or collate my copies to the sounds of an amateur big band or chants of "rape is not okay," depending on who got the appropriate permits that week. I think we had about six Octoberfests over there last year, beginning as early as August, and there was even a semi-nude fur protest this past spring. (Unfortunately, no one in the office had any binoculars.) I mean, okay, it’s not exactly OC-caliber entertainment, but my office for my last job was in a basement with a view of the other four people I shared it with, so at least I’m moving on up.
My office building has its share of limitations. Temperature control, for instance, is one of them. Last winter I actually managed to blow out a fuse trying to operate two space heaters at once; though I was wearing a sweater, my winter coat, and a rather fetching scarf, my hands could still not maintain the minimum temperature necessary to type without accidentally converting my legal documents into e.e. cummings poems. (Luckily I was able to blame this mishap on a temp, who later went on to win the Bollingen Prize.) In the summer, our offices get hotter than R. Kelly at a Girl Scout camp, and it is not unusual to see coworkers walking around in various states of undress poorly suited to their ages and/or body types. Suffice it to say that it is difficult to comment intelligently on the complexities of qualified immunity while distracted by the man-eating pit stains of Barry from Human Resources.
One thing I do love, however, is the fact that my office is right across the street from a public plaza, where representatives of a full spectrum of humanity gather each day to protest, panhandle, or just eat their Lunchables. So I get to clean out my e-mail inbox or collate my copies to the sounds of an amateur big band or chants of "rape is not okay," depending on who got the appropriate permits that week. I think we had about six Octoberfests over there last year, beginning as early as August, and there was even a semi-nude fur protest this past spring. (Unfortunately, no one in the office had any binoculars.) I mean, okay, it’s not exactly OC-caliber entertainment, but my office for my last job was in a basement with a view of the other four people I shared it with, so at least I’m moving on up.
