The end of an era

I had to change my outgoing voicemail at work today. This is what it now says:

"You've reached Jessie Colburn. I no longer work with [my company]. Please contact [my former supervisor] with any further issues or concerns. She can be reached at [her new number]. Thank you."

Amazingly, this was not the most difficult part of my day.

Everyone knows I'm emotional--even, no especially, when it's entirely uncalled for. I am that girl who cries at Hallmark and Mother's Day ads; that girl who gets teary in movie previews; that girl who weeps at the end of Mutt Dog, a picture book by Stephen Michael King, because the last line says: "And each night when Mutt Dog goes to sleep, he knows exactly where he belongs."

So it stands to reason, then, on the day I'm leaving my job--a job I've loved (and hated) for two and a half years--I would be a complete basket case.

Here's the funny thing about denial, though: It can be fantastic when dealing with extremely emotional situations. Up until it disappears and you're left with the haunting reality that this is, in fact, actually happening.

I was able to keep it together through most of the day--saying goodbye to coworkers who have become close friends; having my last lunch at the Yard House with my editorial pals (one of whom was a bridesmaid at my wedding and who remains one of my favorite people); even turning off my computer for the last time wasn't as hard as I thought it would be.

Strangely, the hardest thing was turning in my keycard to the acting HR representative, Marsha Brubaker. Marsha and I were not close office buddies. Our cubicles are on opposite sides of the floor and our assigned duties don't have much in common. We've bonded over our individual circumstances during this miserable transition phase, and for that I'm grateful. But I never would have guessed that she'd be the one to see me at my worst.

Handing over that key, though, was ridiculous. This was my first real office job. It was my first step in my publishing career. And over the course of the last six months, it has been ripped and pulled and forced into something that is utterly unrecognizable to me. This is not one person's fault; and I do not blame the new house that purchased ours. It's business and I understand that. But because the whole process has been drawn out for so long, a part of me doubted that it was actually coming.

And then I had to hand in my key to a place that no longer exists. It was more than just surrendering my access to the building. It was an acknowledgment that I can never actually go back to this place because doing so would mean traveling through time. Which--and I hate to be the bearer of bad news here--isn't possible yet.

Of course the office, and the job, weren't perfect. Everything is and was flawed. But these flaws were familiar and the work was incredible.

And dammit, it's hard to have it gone.

I just put a shoe in a trashcan.

So, my final day in the office is tomorrow. And I'm finally getting around to doing that "detail" clean I was asked to do weeks ago. I found some amazing items:

1. Lotion


2. Bobby pins


3. A stack of Post Its that I was convinced had vanished into oblivion


4. A Costco size bottle of Advil


5. Ribbon


6. Lip gloss


7. A picture of me in a Kitty costume from Halloween


8. 3 shoes

Yes. Not 4 shoes. 3 shoes. These are: a pair of brown loafers that had been sitting under my desk for, seriously, I don't know how long, and a single black pointy heeled pump with silver dangly things attached to the toe.

Those shoes were a gift from my friend Lauren (who quit about a year and a half ago). She didn't want to take them to New York when she moved, and thus, I inherited them. Them as in plural. I know she gave me the full pair because I've worn them a few times. But strangely, one of them has vanished.

Not having much use for a single black pump, I decided to throw it away. But it's a very weird thing to put a high heel in trashcan. It looks so out of place sitting on top of paper towels and other office trash. What else can you do with a single shoe, though? It's not like anybody else wants it or will have any kind of use for it. And really, throwing it away was kind of delightfully random.

I highly recommend it.

I love this.

You know your office is closing when Bocce Ball starts happening.

Yes, Bocce Ball.

There used to be a large section of cubicles that sat on the east side of our floor. However, the positions of the people who used to sit in those cubicles were eliminated. And henceforth, their former work spaces were dismantled and taken away. What's left is a large open area, bumpy and complete with obstacles, much like a park or backyard. Except, in an office, the objects to avoid are a little more industrious than, say, a tree, a barbecue, or a small child. When office Bocce Ball is played, which, as we all know, is infinitely more fun, we try to stay away from the broken copier, some forgotten bookends, miscellaneous employees who haven't yet been fired (well, at least not officially), etc.

Because I feel so inspired by this activity, I would like to take a moment and salute my Bocce Ball playing coworkers.

You have made lemonade with this bitter, bitter departure. And nothing says, "Wait. You still want me to work? HA!" quite like office sports.

Tonight my beer will be raised to you.

I just found out that my grandmother has bone cancer.

Which, in case you're not familiar, is one of the most painful types of cancer that exists. And like the over-achiever that she is, Oma has it in two places: her hip and her back.

She will be 80 years old in July and has decided to go the route of pain management as opposed to radiation or chemotherapy. There is also an incredibly invasive biopsy that she could undergo in order to find out the exact name of this thing that is eating away at her body. But (and I don't blame her) she's not interested in knowing the specifics.

"I have cancer and that's all I need to know," she says. "I'm not 36 anymore."

Allow me to put this in context.

Oma (Dutch for Grandmother) has already survived two types of cancer that were termed deadly in the early 1960s. In her thirties, she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, and shortly thereafter, with bladder cancer. At this point, chemotherapy and radiation were still relatively new. These treatments, while helpful in defeating the cancer, left massive scarring on her intestines--mainly because the levels were too strong and too high. So, effectively, it took the good with the bad. But at that time her options were somewhat limited.


"You can try these experimental treatments," said the doctors. "Or not. But if you decide to decline, you have about 2 months left."

Keep in mind, my grandmother had 7 children. And a husband.

"At that time, I didn't have a choice. Leaving my family wasn't an option. I never even considered it," she says. "But my life is different now. I'm 80 years old. My kids are grown. My husband is gone. And I'm in so much pain that I have no quality of life. "

If I were her, I'd go the route of pain management, too.

What started this whole sordid affair was a blood clot in her right upper thigh/hip area. At least, that's what the doctors thought. The clot (actually, the malignant tumor) resulted in some loss of feeling in her leg. This is especially bad when one is driving. And yes, Oma was driving when her leg started to go numb. She noticed something was wrong when she accidentally veered off road, and the donut shop she frequently bakes for started getting closer and closer. She thought she was hitting the break because she thought she'd moved her leg. But, really, she was gunning the engine and slamming on the gas.

And, despite the chain-link fence's best efforts, my grandmother's Ford Taurus was just too strong. And the car went careening into Mary's Donuts at a speed of 40 miles per hour.

No one was hurt and Mary didn't press charges. But Oma's license was revoked and her leg tripled in size as a result of the accident. The swelling still hasn't gone down, and this, among other things, is rather embarrassing for her.

But even in the face of her third fight with cancer, my grandmother is hilarious.

"I've never really been happy with my leg size. But at least now I have some options."

Not bad for a woman who's had to bury her husband and her youngest son.

Damn. I wish she could live forever.

Why My Office Is Sometimes Like Daycare

1. We read picture books.
2. I really look forward to snack time.
3. After a big lunch, we put our heads down and nap.
4. It's my friend Kara's birthday today. She wore a special outfit.
5. People steal things that aren't theirs.
6. We spend most of the day wishing we could go home.
7. Yesterday I got on a leftover dolly and surfed down the hallway.
8. My friend Morgan found a gummy plastic frog and and gave it to me; it only has three legs.
9. Next week we're having a special "Goodbye" breakfast with bagels and juice.
10. People cry here.

Seriously?

We have a Give-Away Table at our office. This used to house items like:

1. Movie passes that the marketing gals couldn't use
2. Extra copies of books from random mailings
3. Surplus office supplies
4. Leftover Halloween candy

But, given that our office is now closing, people are cleaning out their areas with a fervor I've never seen. And the items gracing the shelves of the Give-Away Table boggle the mind:

1. Office plants that employees no longer wish to care for
2. Stuffed animals
3. Occasional handbags and hats
4. An industrial size box of control top pantyhose--"ranging in color and size to suit the need of every business professional"

Wow.

A beginning

It seems only right to start something at the end of something else.

My office is closing next week, and so I figured I should start a blog.

Right now, movers are literally dismantling my cubicle. This is rather jarring considering I'm still here, trying to do work, typing on the computer, etc.

I have what--7 days left? My filing cabinets are empty; my drawers are clear; my personal effects from the bulletin board are taken down . . . and yet, there's a delicious irony about having my former workplace collapse around me.

I find myself in one of those curious places where I don't know if I should laugh or cry. It's actually hilarious that I'm still here in the wreckage--printing form letters and writing flap copy (among other things) for my bosses--when the walls are closing in. The awkwardness is laughable--and if it showed up on The Office I wouldn't be able to contain myself.

But I'm not Dwight or Michael or Jim or Pam. And because of that, there's a sadness to the whole ordeal that's ever-so-slightly devastating.

Ah, well.

At least, as my boss pointed out, there's more room in my cube.

"Maybe you should put in a beanbag chair and lounge for the next week," she
says.

Maybe I should.