My husband and I just returned home last week from a trip to Los Angeles. Its been one week today. One very loooong week. It was a fantastically awesome time in LA and ever since we got back I keep asking myself why we live where the air hurts our face…why can’t we live someplace where there are palm trees?
At work today a member from building operations came in and reconfigured the wiring in our room such that now ALL cords from the right side of the room are plugged into outlets in my cubicle: the printer, Keurig, microwave, my coworkers’ computer wires and my own are now all centrally located beneath my feet.
Due to our strict security and confidentiality protocols I’m not allowed to take pictures of my cubicle (as all photography is forbidden in our secure space) but it is a hot mess. The walls are papered with mementos, memes, and diagrams. The shelf above my head serves as a food pantry chock-full of goodies. There are half a dozen pairs of shoes under the desk next to a bag full of Christmas decorations. There are action figures on the ledge, spare Hawaiian AND flannel shirts draped over the cubicle wall for fun-shirt-Fridays, assorted tchochkies in every corner, with all the papers that are actually relevant to my job scattered about every inch of available space on my desktop.
In other words, a definite fire hazard.
What are the odds some random spark is going to reduce this glorious mess to a burning pile of rubble?
So what I’m saying is, when it all does inevitably blow up, its going to be a whopper. Hot sauce and garland are going to be everywhere.
Until then, I’m going to try not to think about it and go to my Happy Place…
My Happy Place has palm trees.