I started my blog in between jobs. This meant I was able to write about past jobs without worrying about repercussion. But a month ago I got a new job and well—that’s all I want to write about. However, on “week one” of my new job, I told everyone about my wonderful blog. So … um … now I really don’t think I should write anything inappropriate about my new job.
Today, however I’m allowed.
One of the women, with whom I’m developed a friendship, brought in donuts for everyone and sent a simple “Donuts in the kitchen—Happy Friday” email to the whole company (twenty-five people).
So I go into the kitchen and preach to anyone who’s listening about how I grew up in a donut shop. Well, not in a donut shop, but working in the donut shop. All the time—from the time I was about twelve through eighteen. Pretty much my entire adolescence. I worked the 3 p.m.–11 p.m. shift and sometimes the morning shifts on the weekends. I closed the Shoppe and opened the Shoppe. I made coffee regular, eggs over easy, hot open turkey sandwiches, cheeseburgers. And DONUTS. At night we threw all of the leftover donuts away into bags from fifty pounds of sugar.
To this day, I can smell a donut a block away. Every pair of sweat pants my dad owned (and that’s all he ever wore) had honey glaze crusted on them. “Time to make the donuts” was the theme song to our life and “Time Out 4 Donuts” was the name of the Shoppe. Yes, with the number.
Back to the donuts in the kitchen. I give a donut lesson to one co-worker. “That’s a French cruller,” I hear myself lecturing. “It’s similar to a brioche maybe—or the texture is akin to a cream puff holder. She tastes and likes, exactly. I’m a one-woman donut consultant. Another co-worker comes by and she gets the entire dysfunctional family history. She doesn’t believe me. A donut shop in Staten Island? How Indy film of me.
So I come back to my desk ready to dunk my plain donut (yes, that’s what I settled for— a “dunkin’ donut” as the customers used to call it) into the regular coffee I bought from the bodega downstairs on 8th Avenue. I decide to send a thank you email to the girl who brought the donuts.
This is what I wrote:
You are cooler than shit. How nice is that? Well I guess shit isn’t really cool—it’s pretty warm and steamy.
That was disgusting; I apologize profusely.
Within a second of hitting send, I see the pop-up icon come up from the bottom right hand corner of my computer window. Email from Galina? “You are cooler than shit …” I see. I hear laughter around the office.
“Did I hit ‘Reply All?’” I say loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“Yes!” the chorus responds.
I used a curse word. I made a heart with characters as my “signature.” The guy who works with me calls it boobs and a vagina.
Hi, I’m the Marketing Director. Happy Friday everybody!