There's a healthy portion of me (hell, we could stop the post right there at that) that's concerned my current job might be too good to be true. Nearly alone in the office on Fridays, amongst freshly brewed vats of Starbucks coffee and candy dishes stacked with dark chocolate almond morsels at every turn, I'm starting to feel as if maybe I'm being followed around by some kind of over-paying fairy godmother on a glittery fairydust bender.
I've slowly started to decorate my office with pictures of loved ones (both human and feline), as well as some new victims of the photosynthetic variety. Nothing too big, of course, as I am still very much aware that a hasty retreat could be required should grandma sober up and the dream come shattering down around me.
In the meantime, it's really nice to be treated like a human being for a change. As in any relationship, it's the little things that make the real differences, you know? Like the management's full faith in my ability to both turn on and turn off the water in the bathroom sinks. None of those third world little push-tabs that spurts exactly one half-second of water. Try as you might to rinse your soapy hands all you're going to get out of that one blast are slightly wetter soapy hands before you have to push the (soapy) knob again. No siree. We've got full-fledged faucets! FAUCETS!
Check this out (and no, my shirt is not maternity wear, you fashion oblivious infidel):
[Note: Hips in mirror may be smaller than they appear.]
Oh and get this! Yesterday, everyone at the office who could spare the midday time went to New Orleans Bistro for lunch (where I kept my 20/22 meals consisting of fish streak alive, thank you very much) to celebrate the August birthdays. I got to take one of my now beloved walks around Bethesda, the food was absolutely delicious and it soon came to light that some of my coworkers happen to be quite hysterical. In a completely inappropriate way. Political correctness went out the faux-Nawlins window before the second biscuit hit the butter, and for a minute there, while discussing in completely unnecessary detail the disadvantages of being female while on Survivor, the Creole nearly hit the fan.
As things wrapped up, I put $15 in to pay for my $9.95 meal plus tip and taxes and whatnot. Mmm mm mmm... rainbow trout on a bed of lettuce. Worth twice that, easily.
About an hour after we returned to the office, Mrs. OwnerOfComany came looking, I'm talking physically knocking on every door in the office, for "who over paid" and absolutely insisted that I reclaim the following:
Sometimes, every once in a very long while, people surprise me in a good way.