Office Space

I've been going through a gradual adjustment period lately, one that's bringing me into the realm of the Adult©. I've been getting up early, making my lunch the night before, using my little glass Tupperware and toting my lunches off to the florescent-lit open-concept space where I spend my days answering the phones, stapling papers together, making small talk around the water cooler, and desperately trying to make my face look a normal face when my boss says, "Can I see you in my office for a second?"

There are perks to the office job that I wasn't expecting. I don't really have to think too hard about what I'm wearing - as long as it would pass muster at, say, a synagogue: elbows and knees covered, hair pinned back, flat shoes and only the merest touch of glitter eyeshadow. I have a schedule, the same one every day. I'm even starting get used to getting up early, and a small part of me even sort of...enjoys it? That can't be right. The Adult© part of me relishes my morning routine of cereal and a hard-boiled egg, even as the perpetual teenager in me looks longingly at my cozy bed every morning.

I mean, aside from the perky little paycheck, there are other bonuses to the office gig. I pride myself on staying organized - a clean desk and all my Post-It notes in a row. An job in an office lets that part of me shine through, and I enjoy the process of keeping a tidy computer and making sure my email inbox is cleaned out. It's a weird thing to take so much pleasure in, but it's also helping to make this position more tenable. Even when it's mundane and pedestrian, playing to a person's skills helps endear the job to a new employee.

To be honest, I sort of have a boner for office supplies. I adore labels, boxes of fresh envelopes, new pencils and bulldog clips. I like staplers with enough weight to kill a man in a roman noir. I like stamps that make a big blue COPY in the corner of the page. I'm starting to learn how to use the big photocopier, and while it's not a skill that's going to qualify me for anything other than an entry level job, it helps when I fantasize about making a 'zine at work. Office supplies are designed to streamline and easy-make the job, and I appreciate their functional designs and frill-free aesthetic.

Just like a black apron and nerves of steel are in a waitress's toolbox, being impervious to boredom and a drawer full of hanging files are the tools of the office drone's trade. Every job has its own thing - forklift drivers usually have those hefty gloves, celebutantes have pants full of other people's cocaine, go-go dancers have their big white boots, and hairdressers have their weird glass cyclinders full of combs and what I assume is Windex©. CEOs have expensive suits, and their underlings have telemarketer headsets. Feeling equipped to do a job, whatever that job is, means that folks have both the skills and talent, and that the people they're working for have provided them with the tools to do the best job they can.

That's why the access to office supplies is so bizarrely thrilling - because it's so novel, I'm acutely aware of the fact that my employers have given me these tools. I mean, it's not like I'm whistling my way out the door with a ream of legal-sized paper in cornflower tucked into my messenger bag; I realize that the stack of file folders on my desk isn't a gift, just for me. But it speaks to the trust that a company has in its employees, to not waste and to use their money in appropriate ways. It's a new thing, to be entrusted with that, and it's sort of heady.

I guess I'll just have to wander around a Staples or a Grand & Toy as a civilian sometime soon, picking up index cards and making sure my three-hole punch is back from the shop. And incorporating some of that organizational flair into my personal life is like investing in myself, the same way a corporation does. And if and when I'm ground down by the monotony and futility of office work, I'll at least take the tools of trade with me.

Michael Cera, You Ruin Everything

This past spring, when I learned that Michael Cera would be playing the part of Scott Pilgrim in the eponymous flick, I shouted, "Michael Cera, you ruin EVERYTHING!" which my sister overheard and agreed with. Scott Pilgrim, I groused, should have been played by someone goofy, stocky, Canadian, floppy of hair and noodly of disposition.

And I was wrong. Michael Cera is all those things - okay, he's by no means "stocky," but he beefed up a little to play Mister Pilgrim, and it showed. Canadian, with enormous silly hair and a comedically confused demeanor, Cera is probably best known for his one-two punch of Arrested Development and Juno, both of which showcased his "acting style". He's famous for his stuttery, naturalistic delivery, which prompts some detractors (like me) to roll their eyes and say, "He's not even really acting," which is probably only partly true. In SP, Cera jumped around and amped up his delivery, turning up the dial from "guy you totally knew in high school" to "cartoon version of guy you totally knew in high school."

I was ambivalent-to-horrified by the decision to cast Cera in the Scott Pilgrim role, mostly because I had never been exposed to Arrested Development and had only really seen the hipster hype around him. Juno, while a charming movie, portrayed Cera as a desirable piece of ass. Maybe I've been out of high school too long, but I was like, "Seriously? That silly-haired boy I could crush with my bare hands?" and refused to be attracted to him. (Ellen Page, on the other hand, I would totally make out with in the back of a taxi.) And then I saw Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist, which was execrable, and I decided that I hate Michael Cera.

The problem is, I was doing things backwards. I was seeing his most look-at-me projects first. These were movies designed to make Cera into A Star For Our Time - a generation's polite, nervous, stuttering equivalent to George Clooney. And again, I was like, "For realsies? That guy?" because Cera is more like A Steve Buscemi For Our Time, or should be: the guy who can deliver a certain type of nervous, twitchy performance, and who's second on the marquee. He's interesting, but not fan-myself gorgeous. He's a dude, a guy, a bud.

There was also a certain triumph to Cera's celebrity. He was a surrogate for all the non-gorgeous guys out there, showing the world that dweebs could still land the likes of Ellen Page and Kat Dennings - undeniable babes. He was an unlikely romantic hero, made even less likely by his auspicious start as the boy who loved his cousin on Arrested Development. He was an unwitting part of the Schlub Romance sub-genre of comedy, in which highly suspect leading men (Seth Rogen, Jack Black) were cast as viable romantic options for women like Katherine Heigl and Kate Winslet: pretty, smart women who, in the non-filmed real world, would brush those guys off without a second thought.

Anyway, I started watching Arrested Development a few weeks ago when I was laid up with the flu. Now, I don't know if this was the fever talking, but I wasn't thoroughly irritated by Cera. He was decked out in pleated khakis and dorky shirts, secretly in love with his cousin and refreshingly normal compared to his ridiculous TV family. He seemed like a sweet teenage boy marooned in a weird situation - in other words, comedic fruit ripe for the picking.

Seen in this light, the rest of his career makes a ton more sense to me. Of course his breakout role was in Superbad, playing the nebbishy good-guy foil to Jonah Hill's galumphing asshole. Of course he made the self-indulgent Paper Heart with his maybe-girlfriend Charlyne Yi. Of course he took on Scott Pilgrim, with its romantic entanglements X seven.

His likability has dropped with subsequent roles, bottoming out with SP, which is a shame, since that movie is arguably one of his best-made movies and definitely one of his most interesting ones. Hopefully audiences of the future will be able to see past the unfortunate Cera hype machine and appreciate the flick for its humour and style. But he still has pull with audiences, and if the long-promised Arrested Development movie ever actually gets made, he'll do a lot to repair the damage of Year One.

I'm able to change my mind about people and things - Leonardo DiCaprio went from crush to object of disgust to respected actor, and I've come to like jogging. I think it's good to be flexible (although thinking it and living it are different things, for sure), and I try to think critically about my opinions - if they're based in fact or feelings, and how they change over time. I'll admit to irrationally hanging on to certain opinions (like, okay, I know How I Met Your Mother is sexist, stupid, horribly plotted and has Ted "Scenery Eater" Mosby...but I still sort of like it). Obviously, the stakes are lower when it comes to media and pop culture, but it's good practice for topics like "How I feel about Israel" or "Which of my friends I would eat first in the case of apocalypse."

I'll count myself as a former member of the let's-all-hate-M.-Cera group now. I'm fairly certain he wasn't expecting to become the generational emblem he was marketed as, and despite some career missteps, his choices have been decent enough. I'll defend the Cera I like - George Michael, Scott Pilgrim - and ignore the Cera I don't care for. My skepticism is fading. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go spend some time with the Bluths.

Paydays Are Like Chocolate

I started working for a company a few weeks ago - after the desolate wasteland of my unemployment, I was ready to try new challenges, learn new skills, access new information and ensure all my TPS reports were filed, with cover sheets, in triplicate, on the appropriate desk. I was also ready to earn a paycheck, because girlfriends, my back account was empty. I felt like those cartoons that depict the concept of "poor" with moths coming out of my wallet.

There's nothing quite like the rush of payday, though, right? I've finally been around long enough to get some cash monies (okay, one automatic deposit), and all of the sudden, the day seems brighter. I can afford things like groceries! Granola bars, you silky bitches: I'm going to take you home and eat you. I can also afford things like new tights, and some work clothes, because I've been rotating the same five skirts for the past couple weeks and I think people are starting to notice. Maybe that's why nobody wants to eat lunch with me. Regardless, the feeling of, "hey, my time is worth actual money to other people" is very gratifying.

Back when I was a wee teenager and wore ridiculous JNCO pants along with my boss-mandated collared shirts to my job at the beachfront french fry stand, I used to get paid in fat wads of cash. It was like being a baby tycoon, especially since I was fourteen and basically a noodle when it came to income. What expenses do fourteen year olds have? I bought magazines and went to the Bulk Barn, where I bought gummi worms and disgusting lipgloss from Wal-Mart. Like, seriously. And I also saved for university: despite having a boatload of savings and a chunk of cash left over from my child modeling days, I managed to rack up twenty grand in bills from the venerable University of Toronto. But I loved getting paid in cash, since it was so immediate. There was no going to the bank, or mandatory five-day waiting periods while my cheques cleared. It was just there, ready to be spent.

After every famine there's a feast. I spent a long time in Winners last night, wandering the aisles, searching for work-appropriate garb I don't also want to burn. ( Quick questions: why is so much of that stuff made from that one cheap-feeling material? You know the one - H&M makes all their pants from it - but it feels like used plastic bags have been melted and woven together to create something that wants desperately to be considered a fabric, but is more akin to an allergic reaction.) I netted some metallic jazz-shoe flats and a vaguely nautical sweater; sadly, the sequined leopard-print hot pants weren't in the budget, even at fifteen bucks. If they're still there in a couple weeks, I might pick 'em up. I desperately hope they are, because although I fear them, I also love them.

Because that's the beauty of payday: it gives you freedom. My boyfriend likes to remind me that jobs aren't really designed to be laff riots with 100% freedom and continuous happiness - they are, he says, called "work" for a reason. Which is true. But, while jobs are designed for people to sell their time to their employers, work needs to do something for you as well - be it personal growth, or professional advancement, or even just the influx of money every so often. And money allows you to do other things: plan vacations, buy silly hotpants, go dancing, even just be free from worrying about how you're going to pay for your food and rent. In the future, when I build up a little bit of savings and am not running so much on fumes - even though I got paid, my months of unemployment have left things a little tight, and the squeeze is on for at least another six weeks - I'll be able to luxuriate in having disposable income. For now, I'm just grateful I'm not broke any more. Being broke makes a girl feel broken.

Lunchables

Anne Lamott does this great thing in Bird By Bird, her 100% awesome writing/life guide, where she talks about school lunches. She says that, as a writer, school lunches are like this perfect little kaleidoscope to peer through. You can tell so much about a person by examining their midday meal: is it in a brown paper bag, or do they have a fancy lunch bag? Tupperware or sandwich bags? Carrot sticks that look like they were "extruded from a machine" (Lamott's turn of phrase, which is funny and bang-on), or are they eating bread and cheese, without the benefit of niceties like mayonnaise or tomato? School lunches, she says, speak to a person's social status, their place on the economic ladder, their confidence in themselves and the world around them, and basically whether or not they're a huge loser, or they can get by, socially speaking.

When I was in elementary and high school, I was blessed with a mother who made my lunch for me - a gift I repaid by constantly losing her Tupperware, sending back uneaten sandwiches, spending my allowance on disgusting cigarettes and $3.95 BLTs from the Irish-themed diner close to the high school, and generally being a brat vis-a-vis the school lunch thing.

Ten years later, I pack my own lunch, into Tupperware my mom bought me, and put that into an insulated lunch bag she bought me too, because my mom pays attention to stuff like that. To be honest, what was a huge embarrassment in high school is a comfort now that I don't live with my parents. Making my own meals is one of those drags that I don't really mind, because I like to eat and packing a lunch saves me LOTS of money. I'm a broke-ass girl with a nice lunchbag. It's the way of the world.

Anyway, it's interesting looking around the corporate lunchroom. Nobody talks to each other during lunch - people lunge for the Toronto Star so they have something to train their eyes on during their lunch break. Eye contact is studiously avoided. Lunches are salads and leftovers; almost nobody brings, like, sandwiches or anything with a carbohydrate. No fruit. No large servings - I've seen people eat an egg roll for lunch and then go back to work. Dudes? I know offices aren't exactly known for their strenuous physical exertion, but your basal caloric needs are more than what's found in Mr. Foo's Number Three.

It's sort of weird eating with people who're ignoring you. Meals are often a friendly, communal thing. We come together and at least make some small talk - kids, spouses, weekend plans, vacation ideas. It's not like I'm expecting my co-workers to pour out their hearts and souls, but not even an acknowledgment that someone has entered the room seems a weensy bit cold.

It bears mentioning that this is one of my first real office jobs - working in the service industry means that you say hello to everyone when they come in the door, but maybe things are done differently in the office atmosphere. From what I've gleaned from The Office, the potential for office awkwardness is just astronomical, so I'm not surprised that the weird vibes extend to the lunchroom.

But it's making me feel like, regardless of how good my lunches are, I'm still a loser. Being ignored sort of does that to a gal. I make a point of saying hello to folks as I sit down (is that intrusive? I can't tell!), and I get grunts in return. I'll try harder for the next few weeks, but it might be time to invest in some reading material of my own - this book might be a great start. And if not, I'll just take comfort in knowing that at least my mom still seems to like me.

Nobody Is Prefect

So, in a fit of New Year/New habit insanity, I bought a papaya...on January, 31 2010. No Frills was a wasteland (seriously, in the event of some hideous plague or zombie invasion, I suggest doing your looting somewhere other than the Dufferin Mall. That place will be picked over by midnight, day of), and so in lieu of red pepper or cremini mushrooms or, like, apples, all of which were long gone, I bought a pineapple and a papaya and a mango. These aren't fruits I usually engage with, but I was like, "Hey, it's a new year! New calendar! New fruits!"

It all seemed so simple. But yesterday, I threw that papaya away. It had turned white and furry and if a plague were to infect the inner 416, that papaya would have been a liability, not an asset. In all likelihood, it probably would have been the cause. But I felt a sadness at my little lost papaya, because, instead of being a fruit (one that is, by most accounts, pretty awful-tasting), it was a sort of symbol. Potential had been wasted, on my watch.

I'm a perfectionist, which is awesome to brag about in job interviews, but then you actually have to deal with it. Perfectionism takes many forms, but I'm one of those people who hates doing things unless it's totally perfect. I don't mean that I would throw temper tantrums if my Thanksgiving arts and crafts hand-turkey was deformed; I would refuse the project altogether, transforming it in my head to something beneath me and therefore not worth doing. Instead of running the risk of doing it wrong - and therefore looking foolish - I would sit on the sidelines, refusing the participate. This might have been cute in second grade soccer practice, where my nonparticipation took the form of dreamy cloud-gazing and massive stomachaches, but it's less adorable when it makes me want to quit jobs for not being "the perfect fit" or when I feel like my (vast!) talent is being squandered on mundane things like "learning how to do the job."

So much wasted potential. I mean, it's not all bad - I've avoided dating some schmucks because I tend to hold out for awesome boyfriends instead of folks that, like, don't make me laugh or have ridiculous tattoos, and it means I don't really buy clothes because I have a hard time with things that are new (which explains my fondness for American Apparel, because everything matches and everything's plain), but it also means I eat the same damn thing at the same damn restaurants, that I go to the same bars, that I eat the same sandwiches, that I have the same haircut, and that I re-read the same books. I'm not adventurous, because I'm freaked out by newness.

It's one of those traits that drives me crazy about myself, though; I've walked away from jobs that were perfectly me because I didn't get along with my boss, and it's bitten me in the ass (job-hunting blows!). It also makes me look wistfully at other people's lives - people like my friend Mark, who can pick up and move across the country at the drop of a hat, with zero fear and a bring-it-on attitude that, frankly speaking, would make me poop my pants in terror. Or the hipster mommyblog I've been reading, the author of which got married when she was nineteen. Bold moves, yo.

I wish I was that fearless, but I get stuck in ruts. Habits, little anxieties, protective voodoo spells designed to ward off uncomfortable feelings - trying new things sometimes ends up with moldering papayas on my kitchen table, and my perfectionist craziness just hates that.

But then again: perfection is boring. Trying new things is good for you. Shake up my soul! Papayas will be bought again, along with maybe a dragonfruit or a tomatillo. New jobs will be procured and eventually left, new dishes will be eaten and new living arrangements will be attempted. I need to try, and remember that the opposite of "perfect" isn't "failure:" there are so many things to learn from the world, if I can only climb out of my little ruts.

FRANCO: The Artist Who Somethings, Whatever, I Forget

When I was in middle school, I caught the celebrity crush-bug, hard. Like so many of my little-girl peers, who were boy-crazy in a way that meant talking to actual boys was terrifying, I instead opted to become mildly obsessed with some of the more telegenic young studs of my generation, including Jonathan "JTT" Taylor Thomas. He played one of the sons on Home Improvement! He was the voice of Young Simba in The Lion King! He did a rain dance with Chevy Chase in Man of the House, a movie so bad I'm surprised the universe hasn't collapsed in around my parents' basement, where it's currently being archived on VHS for future generations to ruin themselves with. In high school, I fell in with the skinny weirdo Eric Foreman, as played by skinny weirdo Topher Grace (I actually have no idea if he's weird or not, but mofo is undeniably lean): he was awkwardly in love with his hot Amazonian neighbour, was hilarious without being stupid, and wore desert boots, which hold an inexplicable power over me. While everyone else swooned over Danny "Hyde" Masterson, I was all about the Foreman.

Anyway, I wasn't much for most celebrities: my high-school self papered my room with oversaturated ad campaigns and panels from Ghost World. I'm more fascinated by female celebrities, in a way: dudes tend to be either Messy (Bret Michaels) or Dressy (Joshua Jackson), and everybody basically looks the same in a suit. Oh, sure, there are attractive dudes out there in Hollywoodland - I have a soft spot for Community's Donald Glover, who also raps and is h-o-t, along with Say Anything-era Jon Cusack, who is approachably hot without blowing the roof off it, unlike, say, Angelina Jolie, whose hotness makes me resent her a little. But aside from making sure to watch That '70s Show every time it was on, I was like, "Meh, dude celebs."

It's hard for me to find celebrities I relate to. I sort of love the Olsen Twins, even though they're insane and prone to tottering around in skyscraper heels and looking simultaneously twelve and 160 years old. They seem like most parts of their day are giant art experiments, but I'll admit to being shallow and less interested since Mary-Kate quit being anorexic and they both quit acting in contractually obligated DVD travelogue messes and took up smoking and caftans. Siiigghhh. And it's like, sure, everyone would make out with Bill Murray, or Jim from The Office, or Harvey Birdman. But those are obvious choices.

But I think I've found a new man, a new leading dude, a fascination. He's been on the radar for a while, but this is really James Franco's season, and I, for one, am embracing it.

All right, I'll admit to being disgusted by James Franco when he first sort of got big a few years ago, but it's not totally my fault. Back then, he was presented to the public as some sort of heir to the James Dean crown - mostly because he had played Dean in a biopic, but also because he was serious and pillow-lipped and good-looking and talented, and was packaged with nary a sense of humour. It was like, "SEE! The troubled young man! HEAR! The revving of his career's engines! SNEER! POUT! Yes, you're an animal!" et cetera, and he was ALWAYS photographed in black and white, wearing a leather jacket. It was like, Dude, we GET IT.

But then he started taking on more interesting roles, roles that weren't clearly designed to make him into a heartthrob or Dean 2.0. One of his first roles was as Daniel Desario on Freaks and Geeks, a show that launched a generation of actors (Jason Segel, Seth Rogen, Busy Phillips) and written with both snap and pathos - i.e. the perfect blend of high school existence. Daniel was a moody sumbitch, dating the harridan Kim Kelly, encased in a creaky leather jacket, alternately too cool for school and desperately lonely in his tough-guy posturing. And he brought it while he was nineteen years old.

And then he was in Spiderman, which seems to be his one gargantuan Hollywood blockbuster - Franco's quietly kept the door open to less bombastic projects, including Milk (gay Sean Penn), Pineapple Express (stoner movie, with explosions), 127 Hours, (arm!) and, my personal favourite, General Hospital, in which he played a character named Franco and got his real-life mother cast as his on-screen mother, and generally just meta'ed the place up so badly I don't even know if it was an elaborate, hilarious-for-Franco joke or what.

Plus he's all productive: currently attending, like, six different PhD programs for writing, painting, and Pinky-and-the-Brain-ing, he just published a book of short stories, has the best sad face on the West Coast, posed in drag, has taken on multiple gay roles and then talks about it like it ain't no thang, and rides the divide between Messy and Dressy so well it makes my vagina sad. He's a busy man, but he seems like he'd be fun. Finally - this Franco has left the humourless Dean-robot in the last century and actually seems like a total hoot.

So enjoy it, Franco! You can act, that's for damned sure, and if being attractive and back-to-backing stoner movies with Oscar bait ever gets boring, I'm fairly sure you're the type of soul who could waltz into a Waffle House and find something fun about hanging out behind the deep-fryer. My only request is that continue to be a nut-job, a man with brains and balls and the ability to turn a venerable soap opera into Franco's Hour Of Whatever The Hell Is Going On, and that you write a dishy biography sometime soon (or not - make us wait!) that talks about your on-set prank wars and that includes a recipe for sour cherry bars, because I will buy that monster and frame select passages. In other words: stay weird, Franco. I like you best that way.

The Weather Is Here, Wish You Were Beautiful: Couch Island

Oh man, usually at this point, I'd be bursting with awesome news about my new job and my New Years shenanigans and my Top Ten Secrets to a Bangin' Bod by March! (hint: diet and exercise!), but I've been waylaid by the flu and have spent the last three days marooned on Couch Island, surrounded by the detritus of my sickness: bottles of Gatorade, various fever-fighters, ginger ale, the first season of Arrested Development, and roughly one thousand used tissues, which weren't Kleenex, but rather bulk-purchased toilet paper. It's what they use in prison and it's made from repurposed essays written barely literate sheep shearers on treebark about How They Spent Their Summer Vacations.

So this is an apology post, a truncated version of what would usually be 2011's incandescent starting point, but due to my febrile state and the fact that I accidentally just drooled all over my day-three sweatpants when I tried to blow my nose (don't ask), I think I might take a raincheck on that one. I know on the heels of my lazy recipe post last week, it's inspiring no confidence from my seven loyal readers (hi Mom!), but trust me: the pull of Couch Island is intense.

But I vow on my empty Gatorade bottles (according the pharmacist, diluting the electrolyte replenisher with 50% water makes it easier on flu-addled systems, for your next tango with this beast) that I'll be back soon, with pithy and self-centered observations about Toronto, bikes, Rob Ford's ridiculous Member's Only horribleness, fashion, TV, and whatever else I usually yammer on about. Deal? In the meantime, send me healing voodoo vibes over the interwebs, and hope fervently that you don't get this, because it's a doozy. I've felt like I could easily win an award for Best Performance by a Zombie Who May Not Be Entirely Acting. Gahhh....brains....although I'll settle for soup and season two of Arrested Development.