Alarm does NOT go off! I roll over to look at my alarm clock. 10:37am. oooh boy. I get up and quickly get dressed. As I leave, the house phone rings. It's P. saying she "just wanted to see if you were around" in a sing song manner. Ugh. You know when your office gives a wake up call, you have a problem. Right outside the store is a baby bird, at least 100 feet from any kind of habitable area, struggling to get inside the store to complain about how long it takes to fax documents and then shit on the floor, like so many of our customers. While this will not be a reasonable excuse for being two hours late to work, it will definitely provide an excellent distraction. I put the bird in a box, write "DO NOT EAT" on the outside, and bring it to the warehouse, hoping none of the Filipinos in the back have it for lunch. Back in the Philippines, they eat house lizards and baby mice alive, so I wouldn't consider birds off of the menu.
The bird looks mildly healthy, can't stand for shit, but I figure that's what a 12 foot drop might do to a baby bird's legs. So I raise a gimp, big deal. I figured that since the thing's own mother didn't want it, I would name him Parsley. Parsley is that little sprig of nothing that is thrown away on everyone's dinner plate when dining out, which I felt was fitting. As I take it home after work, I begin to get excited about having a wild animal as a pet. Illusions of me being this "bird man of Alcatrez" fill my head. Or teaching this Blue Jay to find me walking down the street and drop the house keys I left at home into my hand. A tip of the cap to my friend Parsley as I impress one of the MANY fashion models traipsing all over town so much that they feverishly make out with me in front of little children before their mothers cover their eyes. What a bird.
It was getting late and I began thinking "If I were a baby bird, what would I eat?". So I headed over to Stop and Shop to pick up a turkey baster, some baby food, and an eye dropper. Parsley ate the baby food right up. The only thing he didn't like was an eyedropper of water shoved down his throat. Go figure. But Parsley had to have been thirsty after sitting in a cardboard box all day, I thought. I know what's best for him. Squeeeeeeeeeze.
I forgot that the second there is an ounce of sunlight, birds will start to chirp. So 5am hit, and even though Parsley was in a shit stained box, he hobbled around frantically chirping as he bumped into the sides of the box. This was NOT happening. I threw a towel over the box and he shut right up. Back to sleep. I fed Parsley before going to work and didn't get home until much later that night. Parsley looked.....alright I guess. Kind of gurgling a little as he breathed. He appeared hungry and opened his mouth, but would quickly fall asleep after doing so which left this glob of baby food between his beak. Narcolepsy, I figured. I've seen this a million times in my friend Burke. I've got a Burke for a bird. I got online and thought that maybe I should find out how others cared for their baby birds. All of the directions said not to squeeze water into the bird's mouth, but to dip their beak in a small dish so that they knew where to find water if they wanted it. Uh oh. I go over and kick the box that Parsley is in. He's not looking so hot. As a matter of fact, he's laying on his side. I put him into the nest I made him, which consists of a Chobani yogurt cup wrapped in a dirty sock, and go to sleep. The next morning, the Parse man was a lifeless lump. He hadn't moved from the position I left him in last night. I leave him in the box for one more day, partly to make sure the bird wasn't like half dead but mostly because I didn't have the time to bury the thing. But sure as shit the bird still didn't move an inch.
There is a lesson to be learned here somewhere. Maybe don't try to be nature's personal doctor if you have no clue what the fuck you're doing? Maybe do research BEFORE deciding what you think is best for a defenseless animal? If it was a human baby, would it have faired any better? Granted, I wouldn't have kept a baby in a shit stained box with a sock covered yogurt cup, but I can honestly say that I'm not sure after this experience.

Alarm goes off. 8:50am. FUCK NO.

I wake up 9:40am. Ugh. I must have hit OFF instead of SNOOZE. Scattered papers blanket the floor to my room like a bum about to paint the walls of his shack and stick to the bottom of my feet as I make my way to the sink. I was up until 4:30am frantically redoing a lesson plan for grad school. That's right kids, one day this unshaven mess could be stumbling through the classroom door with a made up story about a car accident and toothpaste streaks running down the corners my mouth. I holler goodbye to my dad who's ass is on the toilet trying to figure out the daily Jumble. "What the hell is SERCES" he mutters to himself. Oh well.

I walk into work where S., who I am positive is mildly retarded, pulls me to his cubicle to show me the Eva Mendes wall paper he put on his desktop himself. I clap and think about getting him a cookie. Mr. B, who's my boss that I sit directly facing, sees me come in so I tell him I had to run to college and physically hand a paper in. In my logic, considering travel time I actually had to get up early to get to work this late so he should understand. He clearly doesn't give a shit and talks about the Mets' collapse last night. I love this job.

Now that there's maybe two hours of actual work to do in an eight hour day, different employees in the office have found ways to establish their worth to the office environment. P., an elderly woman started to make cookies and cakes every single day which I am force fed because I'm a "growing boy". I'm 26 years old. You're giving me heart disease. O., another elderly woman has decided to swipe any and all faxes off of the fax machine, then pretend to work for hours on a stamp proof for a mass health insurance advertisement fax that we get daily. Clever, O. but you're 0 for 20 in answering phone calls and your steamed garlic vegetable lunches make the entire office smell like baby shit for hours. I'd register on monster.com if I were you. C. is a middle aged mother of one precocious child who's a year younger than me, "hates alcohol", and graduated three years before I did from college. Granted, it took me six years to slop through undergrad, but still, no reason to rub it in twice a week. C. has an anger problem and slams her phone down after every call, which in her head makes it seem like she's stressed out from all the work she has, but Mr. B and I just roll our eyes and snicker. While her knowledge of office supplies and everything lame is impressive, she's clearly detrimental to a positive work environment and her open criticism of Mr. B's and my messy desks has put her on notice. C. is a bit of a problem for me because I often look back to her cubicle when I hear her creaky chair move to see her peeking over to look at what's on my monitor. She once scolded me for looking at inappropriate material in front of Mr. B when she caught me looking at 1940's era pinup illustrations. I got her back by telling her husband of her secret smoking habit outside of the warehouse entrance.

Then there's me. I furrow my brows to look busy as I Google Earth Jerry Seinfeld's baseball diamond in the Hamptons. I leave with a headache from all of the furrowing and fear that the eybrow muscles I'm building will leave me looking like a neanderthal. I'm also the only one in the office that won't break a hip going down the basement stairs to access old files. My ultimate security comes from being the office computer tech, helping S., which I did 15 times today teaching him how to arrange his icons around Eva Mendes's face, and others do stupid things like opening attachments in emails. I also take care of Mr. B's accounts, which are the only ones calling these days. Wondering what HE does, I glanced at his computer once to see him reading an article about 50 virgins competing to be one of ten women to marry some African king. You do your thing, Mr. B.