Purse Diving

My friends wonder how I get so much writing done while I’m at work. They think I must not have very much to do. Actually, while my body is busy completing the mundane tasks of an administrative drone, my brain actually has too much time on it’s… hands. Let me demonstrate:

As I was standing outside the office and digging around in my uber fashionable - but way too carnivorous (wait – I meant really, really, big – not meat-eating) purse this morning, searching for my access card, I happened upon my name tag. Normally, something this small would never come to hand without a stadium powered light and an hour long frisk that’d make any Man-in-Blue proud. Everything smaller than my trout sized wallet merely churns around my hand elusively with the rest of the flotsam (make up, eye drops, pens, mints, etc.) while I fish for bigger items. My access card is the exception though, due to the attached 2 foot long, red and blue (Go Wildcats!) lanyard. Reaching in elbow deep and groping around for a minute or so, I simply hook a finger into the lanyard and pull the whole thing out of the abyss with only a small shower of receipts, envelopes and gum wrappers cascading to the ground.


Being the conscientious employee that I am, I diligently perform this search and rescue 5 days a week (the alternative is no pay check) but obviously, I don’t use my name tag nearly as often. Otherwise, I would have ordered a new one by now rather than risk a deep sea submersible retrieval in the murky depths of what I call “my bag.” Back when name tags had razor sharp pins, “Jaws” stuck me more than once, so I’m understandably cautious now.

Thank goodness employee labeling technology has marched on! The modern marvel of using magnets for absolutely everything is responsible for my name tag accidentally landing in the palm of my hand. Of course, I didn’t recognize it at first because it was 3 times larger, and had a strange sea- anemone- like texture. (I vaguely remember purchasing a new pack of bobby pins a couple months ago. I kept the supply near the bathroom mirror and would start the day by placing one on either side of my head in a daily 30 second hair styling ritual. On the drive home from work I would let my hair down – literally. When the supply of bobby pins ran out, I purchased a pack of rubber bands.)

Eureka! In addition to my client’s now being able to squint at my left boob before hesitantly asking if they’re in the right place - I’ve hit the mother-lode of 27 bobby pins! Good thing, too, because I’m almost out of rubber bands.

Now for the bad news - the 5 mismatched earrings clinging to the name tag like deformed moons circling Saturn will never be reunited with their mates in the jewelry box. I gave up hope and threw them out long ago.

Maybe I can combine all the odd earrings to make a pin for the shawl that hangs in my cubicle so I can dress in layers. On second thought - a brooch seems too permanent. That shawl is on and off my body more times a day than crumbs from a muffin!

Which leads me to wonder: why does the temperature in here alternate hourly between a sweat lodge and an ice box? At my age, it’s hard to tell where it’s the internal or the external temp that’s screwy.

I’ll let that bit of brain candy percolate around in my noggin all morning before I hurriedly scribble it down on my lunch break.