The Office

So, let me paint a picture for you.

Imagine you have 19 itty-bitty-teeny-tiny 1/8 inch diameter dowel rods, 21 inches in length, and you have to cut them up into 1 inch long pieces to be assembled with round disks on top of them to represent trees for your husbands final project...

Tracking?

...Right, so I'm sitting at my several-days-a-week government job, in my cube with giant scissors snipping these rods up. My pinky finger is mutilated from busted blisters from a previous cutting project, and my index finger is on its way. I use my thumb and middle and ring fingers to operate the scissors, and sit in my rolling chair facing the partition wall, watching one-inch pieces of wood fly various directions, snapping as they leave my scissors and ricochet off various objects. Sometimes they land on the desk, sometimes they ricochet off the computer and land between the desk and the partition, falling to the floor. Sometimes they fly up 2 1/2 to 3 feet in the air before finding a landing place.

A man walks by.

I continue cutting, looking at the 12 I have left to do, and think about the ridiculousness of this. Several minutes later, the man walks back, his lingering look on my miserable cube with things plinging into the air in unpredictable directions. 50 to 100 inches of wood lie dejected on the floor, as I keep clipping.

I entertain myself by thinking of things to say to explain this:

Apologetically, "I've decided to make my own matches... ...so I can save some money" "...I dip them in this stuff..."



"Yes, the government is paying me to do this."



"...No, I don't have OCD"



In a childish voice, "I really like watching the pieces fly up! See?!"



"I read an article recently about the nutritional benefit of wood pulp, I'm going to try cooking it with my Thai Noodles tonight"





...Finally on the last one, I clip the last inch.

That's what I did today at work.

(well, I did interpret... but for less than 45 minutes)

But I've been here 8 hours.