Flour needs to buy me a dozen long stemmed homophones.
1:35 p.m.
CLARA CALLS ME TO THE FRONT COUNTER because she says she needs me to sack orders.
Clara: Is full of shit.
Canon is here.
I regret telling her his name.
He towers over Clara. Peers over her shoulder, inspecting the individually wrapped, ornate cookies she spent the past two days making. I presume he is verifying the party order.
I’d like to verify his parts are in working order.
He’s wearing slacks and canvas brogues, long sleeve white shirt. Biceps strain the fabric slightly. Hair styled the same is if he were ready to take the podium and address a shareholders’ meeting.
Coming in person is hands-on, in the extreme. Surely this could be delegated. Well, if said delegee stayed employed long enough, anyway.
“Emma.” Clara waves me over. “Please finish up with Mr. Canon, would you?”
I slide in. He looks over and draws back fractionally.
This is when it occurs to me that I am coated in a layer of flour thick enough to be easily mistaken for a geisha.
His head shakes in the negative. “No need. Everything appears to be in order. Good day.” He’s gone before the white, powdery dust cloud settles.
“Ooo la la papa ooo mawh mawh, Emma,” Clara teases. “You can sure pick ’em. He is gorgeous. And, oh so very proper,” she says, puffing her chest up and tucking her chin in, “and stodgy.” She marches mechanically. Drops her voice low. “Very good job indeed, I dare say. Indubitably. Say, could you be a brilliant chap and help me to extract this board from betwixt my bum cheeks?”
2:00 p.m.
*
Bakery
: Closed.
*
Arms
: Sore.
*
Shower
: Ineffective.
*
Also
: Superfluous.
WHAT, PRECISELY, IS THE POINT of bakers showering off with vanilla and warm sugar scented body wash?
I collapse back sideways onto my bed, hair wet and hanging over the edge.
3:40 p.m.
“EMMA,” CLARA TRILLS FROM MY DOORWAY. “Let’s Beau Brummell the hell out of you.”
I don’t bother to lift my head. “It doesn’t even start for over three hours.”
“Listen. This fixation of yours with the aloof man on your floor just isn’t like my Emma. What are those annoying words you’re always saying you do at work? Be proactive. Facilitate. Solution focused. What else?”
This gets a partial sit-up. “Clara, I am putting it behind me, because, as you well know, that man pays me no heed. And furthermore, I’m probably lucky for it as he is the hugest of jerks. This situation doesn’t feel good, and as a rule, things that cause pain should be avoided.”
Coincidentally, that also is my outlook on running. I think it’s a healthy outlook. Irony is chock-full of fiber.
Clara shakes her head and smiles disbelievingly. “You? Avoid a challenge? I cannot believe such a thing.” She tames an errant curl with the hot iron. “Emma Baker. I have known you this side of forever and have never once seen you back down from a challenge.”
“I am not going to talk to him, Clara. Exactly what have you gotten in your head that I’m going to do? Saunter right up to Canon and strike up a conversation? Dazzle him with witty banter? My rapier wit? Feign insight into world politics or whatever it is that might actually appeal to him?” My rant steams on. “Anything I have to say to him is magnificently inappropriate, at best. Like ‘Hey, now that you have a few beers in you, are you loosened up enough to speak with one of us plebes?’ or ‘Greetings, Mr. Canon, how lovely to finally meet the owner of my favorite butt cheeks.’ Or…or…or…” I stumble over a few words, sounding more upset than I feel. “‘Are your beer goggles thick enough to make me sexy?’”
“You finished?” she asks, drumming her fingers against the doorframe.
Squinting, I dare to ask, “Your point being?”
“Just walk up to him and say whatever comes naturally. Whatever you say will be either brilliant or unnecessary because you are smart and beautiful, so you don’t exactly need a killer pick-up line. An annual office party is the ultimate place for people to cross corporate barriers. We’re talking drunken grope sessions under the receptionist’s desk. Copy room fornication.” She whisks a set of hot rollers out from behind her back. “Let’s make some regrets!”
I flop back on the bed.
5:23 p.m.
ONE MIGHT THINK that having several hours to get ready for a party, even a rather dressy one, might be plenty. One might also think that a person such as myself who has managed to get up every day and leave the house fully and appropriately attired for multiple decades could be entrusted to accomplish the task of achieving said state of being clothed.
Clara: Not amongst the collective “one.”
“I happen to think I dress quite nicely, as well as on trend, thank you very much.” I slide out of the third outfit I’ve nixed.
She holds up a women’s white tuxedo. Intended to be worn shirtless.
I can’t say no fast enough.
“Yes, of course you do. That’s not even in question. I would never borrow your stuff if you looked passé. And you know perfectly well that’s not my point, so stop your fidgeting.” She plops a set of false eyelashes down on the vanity. “But if your normal gorgeousness isn’t cutting it, crank it up to eleven.”
I look at the lashes. They look back at me.
“I will dress to the nines, but it will be for me. I used to love the holidays, and I used to take the time to make them special. So this year I will decorate me.” I half-laugh, unwinding a roller. “Say, do you still have those silicone bust extenders?”
Clara squawks, “You wanna borrow my chicken cutlets?”
I wince at her accurate description. “The very same.”
7:26 p.m.
*
Official Party Start Time:
7:30.
THERE IS NOTHING FASHIONABLE about being late.
Crimson satin dress so shiny and bright red that dalmatians may try to ride around on top of me.
Sparkling shoes strapped on. Dark curls cascading over my shoulders and down my back. That shadow trick with pearlescent powder finally worked.
I may even keep from ripping these false lashes off.
Not likely. But still. The possibility exists for the first time in the history of ever.
“Well, helloooo, nurse.” Bert shakes his wrist like he has handled a hot spud.
I smile and give a tiny curtsy for good measure.
Off to the bar. Belly up.
Rebecca is already here, resting her elbows on the bar. Shoulders hunched slightly. The constant upheaval at work may be getting to her. Overturned shot glasses line up single file in front of her like good little soldiers.
Plus, she runs the committee that puts this soiree together every year. I’m sure it’s a thankless task. Nobody really wants to come to these things or buy presents for coworkers instead of having more money for loved ones.
I stepped in many an afternoon to run interference, keeping all the people who had “the perfect idea” for everything from music to theme to food. She would have gotten nothing done if she’d listened to each individual pitch. I sorted through the onslaught, separated wheat from chaff so to speak, and prioritized the best according to cost.
This year, Rebecca instituted a White Elephant gift exchange, that passive-aggressive method of conveying just how little the people you see more often than family mean to you via the splendor of craptastic gifting.
She also set the fun additional requirement that we all wear, or in some other manner utilize, our gifts at work on at least one day prior to New Year’s Day.