Someone just came up to my desk calling me ‘toots’ asking for something.  This feels like Mad Men but without the hotbed of sexual attraction of a Don Draper or even Roger Sterling in a pinch.  I told him that unless there is a photo of Dustin Hoffman in a dress and glasses as my new desktop, to never say that in my vicinity again. 

Which brings me to my next point.  Somehow our work space has morphed into a construction zone in the last couple weeks.  The one benefit is that our new office is on the 52^nd floor of a building in the Financial District with views that make you feel like how you feel in the first opening minutes of “Manhattan.”  We can see from LaGuardia to Staten Island and I feel like Sarah Palin when she said she could see Russia from her house!

We also work with this err, French person we shall call Pierre.  Pierre evidently can be a close talker at times, which I haven’t personally experienced – but another coworker just did.  Which I guess was unfortunate since Pierre was standing as the other dude was sitting in his chair showing him something on his monitor.  When the other guy turned around to tell him something I guess he got an eyeful, as I just walked by this:

“Dude, this is too close!!  Too close!  Let’s just check out my view right now.  I’ve got the Statue of Liberty to my left, Pierre’s junk in the middle, and a big ship to my right.  Do me a favor, and let’s just set that junk to sail.”

Back to the construction zone.   What should be a female fantasy on par with the FDNY, cowboy, and Native American (I get all my ideas of female fantasies based on the village people) is instead quite bleak.  There is not one cute one of the bunch.  Except for the lone female construction worker who reminds me of a Erin Brockovich’d Julia Roberts.  She’s really cool.  Otherwise, no eye candy for momma.  Which is a shame because I have the perfect entrée all planned out which shall go to waste.  Tell me if you could resist “Hey, got a construction question for you.  Working with some drywall, any of you know how I can find a stud?”  This is all going to waste.

Also, one of my Lady Coworkers was carrying an armful of flowers yesterday.  I stopped to chat about them when she told me ‘This one all wrapped up are the pussy willows I got.  It is so hard to transport pussy willows.  Pussy Willows sometimes get destroyed in transit.”  Professionalism remained intact as my brain was about to explode.