Where are you today?

Cashing in some Amazon.com gift certificates online you got as an early gift from someone far away? Relaxing on the couch with your laptop as reruns play on TV? Checking e-mail, which has slowed down a dribble of mostly spam this week?

I'm at work. A lot of us are at work. Some of us will only have December 25th off this week.

Hey, it's okay. It's fine. We don't care. We don't work at one of those cushy companies that can just shut down its entire operations for two weeks. We can't stop the march of economy and time to boost morale and let people spend with their families. Families? Morale? What are those?

No, we get to put together the newspaper that you're going to skip right over to get to the day-after-Christmas sale circulars. We're the folks who answer your tech-support calls that same day, trying to explain to you the difference between a USB port and the slot where you stick in a CD-ROM to get your brand new digital camera to transfer your gawdawful snapshots online. We're gonna serve you your Whataburger meal while you take a breather from returning all those new DVDs you got that either you already have or you can't abide because somebody got you the full-screen version of Attack of the Clones instead of the widescreen and you're a purist.

The office Santa. Sad enough to make you cry softly to yourself in a bathroom stall.

But that's fine. We don't mind. We'll work. Because, at least for those of us with office jobs, holiday week is that magical time where the space/time continuum slows to a crawl. You feel like The Omega Man, behind your desk, calling out into the void where there are very few others.

There'll be a burst of frantic activity while we try to catch up on the work you left behind (Yes, very sly burning off those last four days of vacation this week. Well played.), but as soon as that's done, oh around Monday at noon, the rest of the week stretches out like a swath of Texas road in the summer.

Those of us who are left will do some online window shopping, we'll catch up the hundreds of e-mails we never answered all year, we'll instant message the other poor schmoe or two we know who's also at work. Then, the fun part.

We'll gossip about you.

That's right. When you leave the office, that's when we pick you apart like a pecan shell. Like how we know what the "vacation" you took in the summer when you didn't bring back any souvenirs from "Florida" was all about. And you know what? It's been six months and your eyelids still don't look any younger.

We'll scavenge any food or candy you might have left on your desk. Hell, in your desk. You're not here. You're stuffing yourself and watching Inside the NFL. Fuck you, man. You'll be lucky if you have a computer when you get back.

You'll be lucky if you have a job. That's right. Our IT guy found those "spreadsheets" in that hidden folder you created. Yeah "spreadsheets." There were sheets and there was some spreading all right. You disgust us.

And that was really stupid, leaving all those receipts in your desk for what you really spent all that money on during your last work trip. Did you really think anybody was gonna believe you spend $500 on cabs in Killeen, Texas? Next trip you take, try to get out of the hotel and wean yourself off the Spankavision, okay?

So have a good fucking holiday. You're gonna have a great week back.

 

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Big pimpin' It's the holidays, so have a great set of them. I'll live through you vicariously as I have my 12th slice of pumpkin pie somebody thought would be a good idea to bring to work. Here's a review I wrote of the Hugh Grant/Sandra Bullock "romantic" "comedy," Two Weeks Notice. Shouldn't that title have an apostrophe in there somewhere? But, I digress. I have a review of the movie Chicago appearing Friday, too. I'll put that link up when it appears. I also wrote a recap of The West Wing, which I never watch, and which made for a terrifying, but ultimately rewarding experience. If I don't talk to you guys again before the New Year, be safe and be good.