Snacks, Inc.

My hours at my new job are 8-4:30, although very little of this time is devoted to actual work. We are too busy throwing parties.

A typical day goes something like this:

8:00 (or slightly earlier): Arrive, make loud arrival noises so co-workers and bosses are aware that you are at your post on time and are ready to receive any treats being passed around.
8:05: Check kitchen for treats on way to restroom.
8:11: Check kitchen for treats on way back from restroom.
8:12-8:15: If no treats have appeared in kitchen, frown at table where they are usually located, hoping this will induce some to appear. If treats have appeared, take one for now and one for later, after breakfast.
8:16: Check table near editors' cubes for treats.
8:18: Sit down in cube, arrange paper clips, rearrange location of two photographs on desk, etc. Realize that you are in someone else's cube. Slink back to your own cube and repeat.
8:30: Someone announces surprise party to celebrate an employee's new car purchase; partake of car-shaped cake.
8:50: Open e-mail announcing that the entire curriculum staff, which includes editors, will be taking one of their staff to lunch today to celebrate the occasion of her adult child finally moving out of the home. Cheer at the announcement that lunch will include dessert for all.
9:04: On way to restroom, happen to notice that someone has brought in leftovers from a graduation party. On way back to cube, help yourself to some of the cookies. At last minute, also take two carrots to keep up the appearance of eating healthy.
9:23: Sample some pastries brought in by the graphic designer, who is leaving soon to open a restaurant and wants some opinions on recipes the restaurant will carry. Write in her goodbye luncheon and party date on calendar.
9:58: Get reminder notice of two-hour meeting starting at 10:00; frantically search through drawers to find some chocolate to help you stay awake. Crumbs of last week's chocolate granola bar will have to do.
10:01: Arrive at meeting to find that the host has thoughtfully provided coffee cake. Take a generous portion to make up for the granola bar crumbs.
10:06-11:59: Sleep through meeting. Blame on excess sugar.
12:03: Arrive back at desk to find e-mail inviting all interested parties to an afternoon trip to The Cow, a quaint stand serving ice cream and water ice. Send immediate acceptance.
12:05: Go to lunch for co-worker.
2:40: Arrive back at work; immediately leave for The Cow.
3:13: Again arrive back at work, this time taking care NOT to make arrival noises so that others will think you have been hard at work all this time.
4:30: Heave self out of chair; check kitchen for any leftovers for the long drive home; amble to car, brownies in tow.

Repeat next day.

The week I started working, there were goodbye parties for three people (Note: There was NO connection between these events). Someone's wife was having twins (we each got two pieces of cake in their honor). There was a bridal shower one day. The big boss turned 50 another day. When there are no occasions to celebrate, someone brings in food anyway. Joe has expressed deep surprise that we don't all weigh 300 pounds.

"A lot of us are pretty new," I said. "Give us some time, and we may be heading there."

One morning on my drive in, I found myself hoping that someone would bring donuts or something, although I knew there were no events scheduled. Lo and behold, a woman in my department came in with a cake and balloon and announced her 5th anniversary. Since she'd only been with the company since December, I whispered "Anniversary of what?" to someone standing next to me. She was a cancer survivor. Now there's something to celebrate.

Today I spied a box of donuts around 2 in the afternoon. As no one had said anything about donuts, I assumed they were old (and I was not that desperate for old donuts, although some days I certainly am not above them). I had to keep passing them on my way to...okay, so they were in a corner where I never have any reason to go, but they did make me curious. Finally I asked someone if they were old.

"No! Didn't you hear Nikki say 'Donuts!' this morning?"

I shook my head sadly. All this time, donuts had been waiting, and I hadn't known.

"You gotta listen to Nikki when she comes in," my co-worker urged. And she didn't mean for new assignments.

One of these days, I'm thinking there's going to be an announcement of quite another type:

"We are pleased to announce that Weight Watchers has agreed to hold weekly meetings at lunchtime for all those interested in joining...."

Unfashion consultant

Like many husbands, Joe often needs a bit of assistance in putting together acceptable outfits in which to go to work. I used to be able to monitor his choice of clothing in the mornings, but now most of the time I leave before he does, so he has been on his own.

“What have you been doing without your fashion consultant in the morning?” I asked.

“You don’t want to know,” he said.

This was worrisome. I encouraged him to put into practice a plan he has been talking about for some time, namely, making a chart of all his pants and shirts and what goes with what. Originally I had not thought it necessary, but it was sounding better and better.

Such a chart would, of course, need my input, or else instead of looking like this:

Pants --------------- Shirt
Black dressy ------- Black and purple stripes; gray and black pinstripe

Blue ----------------- Dark blue/light blue/white stripes
Tan ------------------ Yellow solid, black solid
Gray ---------------- Gray and black pinstripe
Black casual -------- Yellow solid

it might end up looking like this:

Pants ---------- Shirt
Light ---------- Dark
Dark ----------- Light
Not so dark --- Whatever’s left

As can be seen from this chart, Joe’s world has two colors: light and dark. Anything beyond this is unnecessary. He insists that I have made up all the other colors, as he can think of no practical use for them. Both orange and purple are red. Green and gray are merely shades of black.

I set out my clothes the night before, and have often extolled the virtues of this practice to him, particularly so that I can approve his choice or make a polite suggestion, such as "Wear that over my dead body!" But this strategy is much too structured for him. He prefers the "spontaneous" look. This way he can pretend that he is going to the beach rather than to the office.

Let's just hope that one of these days he doesn't forget that he is pretending, and end up at work wearing beach gear. I don't want to get a call from his HR person saying, "Mrs. Bohart, are you aware that your husband arrived at work today in swim trunks? And bright red ones, no less? As you are the Primary Spousal Fashion Consultant listed on his Emergency Contacts, we are holding you personally responsible for this grievous transgression of company policy."

To which I might reply, "Yes, but doesn't he look good?"

Where has all the magic gone?

When one member of a marital union, who hitherto has worked from the couple's home, goes to work outside the home full time, it often creates stress on the marital relationship. The spouse, who -- by virtue of having always worked outside the home and having a long commute -- has been accustomed up to this point to having his meals prepared, his clothes washed and neatly folded, his shirts pressed, and his computer dusted, suddenly must cope with the reality that the Magic Genie who used to live at his house and who performed all these services no longer wishes to be solely responsible for them.

This is confusing, and disappointing, as he liked the Magic Genie, and does not fully comprehend why she had to go away. The Magic Genie was sweet, and relatively uncomplaining. In her place is a Drill Sergeant who is constantly wanting him to "help out," to do things like chop up zucchini for dinner, take out the garbage (including the zucchini peels), and fold his own underwear.

He tries to do what the Drill Sergeant would like him to do, but he finds she is not easy to please. Waiting to take the trash out until it smells like an open sewer is not in keeping with her expectations. The shower curtain must drape nicely outside the bathtub after he is done showering, not be all scrunched inside of it. Omitting the laundry in favor of simply buying additional white t-shirts and dress socks is not acceptable.

While he attempts to carry out the Sergeant's instructions, he secretly hopes for the Magic Genie to come back. He tries to lure her by proposing time-saving dinners, which would give her more writing time. But the Drill Sergeant, he learns, does not like the idea of having roasted deli chicken -- or worse, boiled chicken -- with canned mixed vegetables for dinner every night. She wants more variety, more creative ideas, more healthy meals. Nor does she warm to the idea of eating their meals right from the pan, over the sink, saving precious time in setting and clearing the table and washing the dishes.

Life begins to settle down into an uneasy routine, and he thinks wistfully of the Magic Genie every now and then. But then his spouse's first paycheck arrives, and suddenly he thinks, maybe the Drill Sergeant isn't so bad after all. And he hums to himself as he cuts up the zucchini.

For some, success comes in a box

I have a little secret: I don't do pies -- as in make them -- mainly because pies require a pie crust, and I don't do pie crusts. When I need one, which isn't often, I look for the little red Pillsbury box in the refrigerated aisle. The little red box now contains two round pie crusts that you unroll instead of two square ones that you unfold. Those people at Pillsbury are geniuses.

I have no interest in making pie crusts because I have heard all my life how hard it is to make them. If someone tells me something is too hard, I'm going to believe them. No need for me to try to prove them wrong.

It's true that I have numerous recipes for homemade pie crusts with titles meant to reassure the first-time pie maker, such as "Never-Fail Pie Crust," "Can't Miss Pie Crust," "If You Can't Make This Crust You Are a Born Loser," etc. But I steadfastly refuse to try any of these recipes because if I try, and I do fail, what kind of loser would THAT make me? No, thank you. Adventurous people may enjoy finding -- and stretching -- their limits, but I prefer to keep mine a little fuzzy.

One Thanksgiving, Joe and I were invited to some friends' house along with a few of their relatives. The women in this family were all Pie Women. You know the ones I mean. They can crank out pies like the rest of us make grilled cheese. Of course they had gone all out for Thanksgiving. (I had opted to bring stuffing. No crust needed.) At some point the conversation turned to desserts, and for some reason -- maybe the stuffing went to my head -- I recklessly admitted that I didn't make pies.

Conversation all around the table abruptly stopped, and everyone stared at me. Then they looked at Joe with undisguised sympathy. I didn't make my husband pies? I may as well have said that I didn't kiss him goodbye each morning.

I hastened to reassure them that I make him all kinds of other goodies, but the social damage was done. I'm sure the women were busy thinking how they could slip him a couple of extra slices for the ride home, poor man.

But even this incident has not been enough to induce me to try Never-Fail Pie Crust. The public embarrassment is nothing compared with what I would suffer privately should I, indeed, fail at something that was, for everyone else, no-fail. No, my never-fail pie crust will continue to come in a little red box.

And luckily for me, Joe likes it just fine.

The spirit is willing, but the flesh is hungry

Ahem. If the writing of this blog entry today seems somewhat strained, it is because the Gallant Hero is sitting right next to me as I type, so that, HE SAYS, he can work on another computer he is putting together for our church. For some reason not entirely explained to me, he must do this on my desk. Personally I think he is just trying to weasel some input into what I say about him. No matter. This writing will proceed just as if he were not --

"Don't believe anything she says!"

-- here.

Hmmm. This may not be so easy to ignore.

It might surprise you to know that the number one reason couples quarrel is NOT that one is Invading the Other's Computer Space. That, in fact, is number three, following Taking Over the Other's Napping Space at number two, at least in our house. Number one -- again, at least in our house -- is Raiding the Other's Food Territory.

Whereas Joe, when raiding my food territory, does so for his own benefit, I raid his only to give to others who may or may not be in need of excess calories, such as neighbors or people at work. You might say that I am the Robin Hood of this transgression. Leftover cookies, cake, bars -- all find a home elsewhere so that we are not tempted to consume it all ourselves.

Sometimes Joe actually encourages this. He is particularly generous with his extra portions of sweets when he wishes to lose some weight but does not wish to exercise to bring this about. We even made a pact, some time ago, that all leftover sweets I made would be donated. But the other night, the Food Territory Defense Reaction kicked in.

I had made fruit pizza, and after we had enjoyed a reasonable portion -- that is, reasonable if six of us had been eating it -- I informed Joe that I was going to take some of it to work, and he should tell me how much he wanted me to leave at home.

"What?" he said, alarmed. He even stopped typing at his computer.

"I said I'm taking some to work. You always say you don't want it around."

He shook his head almost violently, and I thought for a minute that he would try to keep the fruit pizza by force.

"You want to keep it all," I said.

He nodded eagerly, although he seemed to realize that he should present some justification for going against our agreement. "Well, it's kind of good for you, right? I mean, it's got fruit."

Fruit. Right. Never mind the butter, and sugar, and cream cheese...

And they say men never focus on the details.

His resolve being what it was, my attempt at a Food Raid ended unsuccessfully. Oh, well. My co-workers' loss is definitely our gain.

Decorating when you're a dummy

A lot of my new co-workers, like me, are former teachers. Unlike me, however, they are quite skilled with those homey little touches teachers are known for -- bulletin board borders surrounding their cubicle, cute little pictures and inspirational sayings, rubber duckies, Kewpie dolls, flowers, flamingos, more flowers, pictures of naked babies sitting in pea pods, etc. The few men among us, more subdued in their tastes but not to be outdone by the women, have little model cars and airplanes lining the tops of their cubicles.

One woman has fastened fake tulips on the outside of a number of cubicles, mine included. For the first two weeks I was there, every time I looked up from my computer I caught this red tulip out of the corner of my eye and jumped, thinking it was someone watching me. This is a very real possibility in Cubicle Land, so I'm not just being paranoid.

One day a higher-up stopped at my cubicle to introduce herself. She had already done this the week before, as I was being led around for the obligatory New Employee Tour (whose purpose, ostensibly, is to introduce you to everyone, but which really is to confuse the heck out of you). But I guess she didn't remember me from the first time.

"How are things going?" was her first question.

I figured her second question would be something along the lines of "When are you going to start making money for us?"

Instead, she said, "When are you going to decorate your cubicle?"

She looked for any evidence that I intended to do so. "Oh, I see you brought a lamp," she said, encouragingly. "That's a start."

"Um, actually," I said, "that was already here."

She shook her head. "Don't admit that."

If my success at this new job depends on my decorating ability, I am doomed. A major reason for leaving the teaching profession was that I just never measured up to the other teachers in terms of classroom decorations. The only thing I was good at, decorating-wise, was window stickees. I had window stickees for every holiday, including your more obscure holidays, like National Sandwich Day. Other than that, the most decorative thing in my room was the poster showing what to do in a fire drill. Unfortunately I do not have any windows in my cubicle, so my skill with window stickees is wasted at this job.

Our house also bears witness to my lack of decorator genes. We have lived here almost two years, and many of our walls are still blank -- although not so many as were blank just last week, when Joe, tiring of the Empty Wall look, took advantage of my absence one day to hang 10 or 12 picture frames upstairs.

Of course, none of them have pictures in them yet -- at least, not any of us, nor of anyone we know. There is one picture of a distinguished-looking gentleman walking on a beach with an umbrella; through some whim of Joe's, the man is taking his stroll sideways. The man's pants are several inches above his shoes, giving the impression that he is a prudent man, ready for deluge both from above and from below.

My co-workers have also given hints about decorating my cube. I tried to joke about it by saying, "Well, I'm not very good at that sort of thing; I may have to contract that out."

"Well, there are a lot of people who freelance here," they said seriously. "You should be able to find someone you can hire to do it."

They left me alone after that, but I'm sure it won't be for long. My one hope is to bribe the woman who planted the fake tulips -- she is leaving the company soon -- to leave me all her decorations. I won't know what to do with them, but at least if people ask if I'm going to decorate, I can wave vaguely at the pile she left and say, "Oh, sure, I've just been too busy to get around to it."

Meanwhile, I have the lamp.

Hobbies aren't us

"How was your first day of work?" Joe asked a few weeks ago when I started my new job.

"Well, my boss asked me a disturbing personal question," I said.

"Did you tell HR?" he said, alarmed.

"No, not disturbing in that way," I said. "She wanted to know what you and I like to do together in our spare time."

"Spare time?" he echoed, as if unfamiliar with the term.

"For fun," I explained.

"Oh. What'd you say?"

"Well, I didn't think 'eat ice cream out of the carton' was really what she meant, so I told her we like to go to flea markets and antique places. Not that we have done those things very often lately," I said significantly.

"Well, we do lots of other things together," he protested.

"Like?" I said.

"Like...we go out to eat together," he said.

"No, we need some interests," I said. "You know, like some couples like to travel, or go boating together."

"I like to go to the beach," he offered.

"Yeah, but we do that, what, a couple of times a year?" I said. "We need something we do more often...we need to develop a 'signature' activity -- something that's really interesting and that we pursue wholeheartedly."

"We could pursue going to the beach wholeheartedly," he said with enthusiasm.

I decided to take a different tack. "Maybe it would help to narrow our choices," I said. "We don't really like anything outdoorsy -- other than the beach," I said hastily, as I saw him getting ready to say something again. "So that cuts out stuff like camping, hiking, kayaking, hunting --"

"Of course I don't want to go hunting!" he said, horrified.

"-- mountain climbing, fishing, bird watching, bug catching...hmmm, quite a lot of things, actually," I mused.

"I would like to take up fishing," he said. "You could bring along a book and read on the bank."

"Welll," I said, wondering how to get out of that one delicately, "that wouldn't really qualify as doing something together."

He thought some more. "We both like historic stuff, like museums," he suggested.

I looked at him. "Who fell asleep in a hammock in the last museum we were in?"

"Well, if you didn't have to stop and read every single sign in the place, even the ones that say Donated in Memory of Mrs. Ethel Kackelmuss..." he retorted.

I mentally crossed museums off our potential "signature activity" list.

"How about playing games?" was his next suggestion.

"Like Chinese checkers on our honeymoon?" I asked.

"Now, lovey, not every game we play ends up with you throwing the board at me. Although, come to think of it," he mused, "we haven't really played any games with a board since then...."

I crossed playing games off our list.

And so it went. We thought for a long time, trading ideas back and forth, neither of us finding just the perfect interest to pursue as a couple.

Although we do like to take naps. So until something better comes to mind, that's what we'll be doing in our spare time. Although I probably won't tell my boss.