“He’s basically a total . . . damn, I can never think of this word!”
“He’s a total . . . ”
“It’s right on the tip of my tongue. Um, A.C. Slater?”
“Jock? Contestant on Dancing with the Stars?”
“No, no, like Jesse Spano would say.”
“Oh! A ‘macho chauvinist pig?'”
“Chauvinist! Yes! That’s it.”
“Yes!”
“Wait, just . . . how did you know that?”
“Well? Why did you ask if you didn’t think I would know?”
And now every time I get in the shower, I have to wonder, “what ever happened to my thirteen percent more?”
One night, for no reason, the word noogie popped into my head. I’ve given it some serious thought, as a word, and have come to the conclusion that it should begin with a silent g.
The next step, obviously, is to enact this change officially. Who do I get in touch with? Like, do I contact Merriam-Webster? Is there an organization that represents words that are being spelled incorrectly? Maybe I need someone like Jason Hervey of The Wonder Years to head up a campaign. Or do I have to start the revolution by word of mouth?
About six weeks ago, one of the guys in my department resigned to pursue a career in architecture, leaving his sunny, spacious office vacant. Every time I spoke with my mom on the phone, even from my cubicle, she started and ended the conversation with a comment about moving in on the territory. I had a hunch that I’d get to relocate, but my manager was travelling for two or three days, so I forced myself to wait it out until he returned and granted permission to transplant myself and my PC to the new digs.
Since then, I’ve done a little bit of decorating and reorganizing. Also, I have accumulated under my desk: two pairs of shoes and one pair of rain boots; four pictures frames from T.J. Maxx that I keep meaning to take home and hang in my bedroom; one umbrella; one sweater coat; one trench jacket; a pair of shoes that I have to return to DSW; a bag of six swim suit separates that I have to return to J. Crew; a miniature sewing kit; three pairs of pants that I need to either have altered or alter myself using that sewing kit; and a set of watercolor paints.
I’ve been in the office after hours or over the weekend a few times recently with a little time to kill. This is evidenced by the scatter of watercolor attempts on an empty shelf against the wall. The next shelf up holds a few stacks of books arranged strategically to emulate this experiment in language by Nina Katchadourian. I already have pins in one pair of the to-be-hemmed trousers; in fact, I brought the sewing kit into the office last weekend so I could try them on with the right pair of shoes, which now ‘lives’ under my desk.
Yes, I have made myself right at home in the office. I already spend most of the work day barefoot. A few weeks ago, I got caught tweezing my eyebrows in preparation for a hair appointment. I haven’t fallen asleep in my chair yet, but I guess it’s only a matter of time before I start picking my nose with my feet up on the desk.
I won’t go into what had to be cleaned out of my station wagon when it was totalled or out of my Honda when I handed it down to my brother. At least there’s no way I can push my office down a hill and into a tree if it runs out of gas.
An excerpt from the infamous interoffice e-mail forum. Pre-Brooklyn, from my commuting days. My mailbox reached its size limit again, and I couldn’t purge this gem of an Emilyism.
From: Emily
Sent: Tuesday, October 17, 2006 11:24 AM
To: ‘Al’; ‘David’; ‘Sarah’
Subject: RE: I need a nap.
Cohorts,
You know how Hobbits have Second-Breakfast and Elevensies? Consider this an Elevensies-Intra-Office-E-mail.
I am having a good hair day. I also decided that I want to learn to arch just one eyebrow. I think it would be devastatingly clever.
Today, my mailbox was over limit for the first time. I have never felt so important.
Wouldn’t stop, even if I could,
Em
