we resolve to be resolute

Tonight is not quite the last evening of the last day of the year, but it's close. Close enough to make us think about things old, new and cliche. Our beloved Internet is full of the Top Twenty, Best of 2009 lists and resolution stuffs. It's nauseating.

There is no highlight reel for our past year, but if there were we would want it narrated by Christopher Walken. He can make anything sound dirty, angry or scary. We like that.

If we must look back on the past year, it's going to be through the distorted perspective of a glass of wine. Yes, it makes things better and no, we don't need an intervention. What we do need is stock options in a local winery. If someone can arrange that, please let us know.

We won't get melancholy and introspective here about how our professional life is slipping off the edge and into the Pit of Doom. There is some control left over our life, we know that. And we could walk away tomorrow if we wanted to. But this McJob is like that really comfortable pair of pants you've had for ten years: there's a bunch of *holes in inappropriate places, but you deal because you know where all the *holes are.

While we won't make you sift through a best of 2009 list, we will torment you with what we think are resolutions everyone should make for the coming year. We didn't say they would be easy; we just said everyone should make them.

• Only say 'thank-you' when you really, really mean it.

Maybe someone donated a liver and you were on a wait-list. That deserves a heartfelt thanks. But if you say the same thing to the clerk at the video rental that you would say to the person who just gave you an organ, it sucks the meaning out of it. Let's start a new trend. We'll keep 'thank-you' for the big things and 'sweet' will work for the everyday stuff. It means you might hear way more 'sweet' at the office, but you'll sound way more hip.

• Help someone get blind-stinking-fall-down drunk.

This can be anyone - someone you know, a total stranger or Clyde from Shipping. It doesn't matter. There's someone out there that needs to get a good drunk on, and you could be the person to do it. We think it would be way more fun if you get them drunk at work, too. In fact, you can start by helping us get drunk at work. Sweet.

• Remove yourself from a 'social media' list.

Facebook. Myspace. Twitter. Whateversville. Who the hell cares what you're thinking or doing, anyway? We don't. Well, we do - as long as you're reading our blog, that is. Otherwise, stop cluttering up the social media networks with your updates of "I heart u2!" and other meaningless crap. We don't care about your new dog, your new handbag or that you're on team Edward or team Jacob. Well, Jacob was significantly more hot in the chest/abdomen area for that last movie, but that's beside the point. Contribute something significant to the social media sites or get the hell out.

• Skim a little bit off the top.

This doesn't have to be in cash, although off-shore banks do like to deal in hard currency. If you work in a book store, take the odd best-seller home using the five-finger discount. Maybe you could pour yourself an extra latte at the coffee house. We'll try to do some creative accounting at work. Okay, so that's not much different than what we already do. But we'll up the ante.

• Stop being a tool.

We like this one. It could be interpreted so many ways. Maybe your organization is using you as a tool to do work you find unpleasant, or maybe you're just being a dolt. Either way, stop it. We're working for The Man, but we're like a secret agent, eroding the very foundation of the big house. Try it. It's fun.

• Listen to the smart people you hire, or stop hiring smart people.

Not sure how much more defined we need to be on this one. You hired us for a reason - and hopefully it's not just because we have a nice rack or you like the way our butt looked in those pants. Well, maybe it was. We've got a brain. You might want to listen to us occasionally. It's in your best interest. Usually.

We will celebrate the coming year by drinking overpriced bubbly in plastic cups, blowing on noisemakers and probably throwing up in the neighbour's hedge. Then, we'll be hung over. After that we'll start working on those resolutions. But not without a cocktail.

~ Paige

the big cheese: what kind are you?

Now that we've outlined a few of the different office cultures it's time we identified another of our big challenges. You. The executive, vice-president, top banana, head-honcho.

Whatever you or your organization calls it, there's likely a big cheese floating around at the top of the heap. We're the ones who work most closely with the big cheeses, and we've discovered that cheese comes in a variety of flavours.

Now it's time to play a little game. It's called "Spot Your Cheese". We're going to list a number of types of cheese. See if you can spot your flavour among the varieties.


Cheese #1: The Aromatic Cheese

These cheeses can be pungent, usually having been heavily influenced by other strong flavours. Spending time with overpowering oaks and other loud flavours, this cheese barely retains any aroma of its original intention, instead relying on the branding of others to carry it along. Sometimes strong aromas are employed to distract us from the true flavour of the cheese, which can be very, very nauseating.


Cheese #2: The Middle-Aged Cheese

There's a time to eat an aged cheese - and that's before it becomes crumbly, bitter and grainy. You know what we're talking about. A strong, aged cheese is delicious and pairs wonderfully with a bold, full wine. But there's only a small window of opportunity when the aged cheese is at its peak. Often this cheese is kept a bit too long on the shelf, resulting in significantly unmet expectations upon consumption. When it comes time for this cheese to take centre stage and shine, we're left with nothing but crumbs and an acidic aftertaste.


Cheese #3: The Hip New Blended Cheese

We're all for experimentation, trying new things and taking a less travelled path - heck, we're even known for blazing a few of our own trails. But we can spot a hipster a mile off. Some of the new cheeses are great: dynamic, full of rich flavour and groundbreaking - for a cheese. With innovation comes imitation, and for every great new unique cheese invariably follow dozens of hipster imitators. These cheeses have usually spent a bit of time around some of the more successful blended cheeses; enough time to acquire the initial flavour, but not enough for it to sink into the core. The diversity we expect rests only on the surface. Beneath that could be just about anything, and usually is. Except, of course, for what it presents itself to be.



Cheese #4: The Cottage Cheese

Many people think they can become a great cheese - or make a great cheese. This is almost true. Without the critical elements present to make great cheese we're left with rubbery, insincere and unsubstantial cheese. And it takes more than just the right ingredients to make a good cheese. Those ingredients need to be blended in just the right mixture, aged for just the right amount of time and exposed to just the right amount of external elements to provide the perfect balance of texture, flavour and structure. If you've ever had a bad cottage cheese experience, you know just what we're talking about.


Cheese #5: The Soft Cheese

When we buy cheese, we want to know that we've bought cheese. Good or bad, we need to know it's an actual cheese. No hiding as a cream cheese, either. That's just not fair. You're either a cheese, or you're not. Make up your mind.


There are many other cheeses out there, so beware. These are only a few we've encountered at our Desk. And the cheeses above can be sneaky, pretending to be one kind when in fact they're another. Don't rely on the packaging alone. Cheese can be marketed and branded just like any other commodity.

Once you're stuck with an overpriced or misrepresented cheese, it's difficult to return. In fact, there aren't any places we can think of that will take a cheese back if you've made a poor choice. Best to just plug your nose and dive in.

After all, it's just a cheese. Life will go on after it's gone. And trust us - if it's a bad cheese, it will eventually be gone, one way or another.


~Paige

the slippery slope of suburbia

From big city centres to remote rural offices and the many variations that lay between, we've worked the gamut. As you can see, dear reader, not all administrative worlds are made of the same cloth. And as an administrative professional we need to be flexible enough to roll with the punches (sometimes literally) without losing that bit of us that remains hopefully untouched by whatever cesspool surrounding us.

There is no administrative world as slippery as that which lives in the suburbs. Some of our favourite authors have written extensively on the suburbs, describing them as soul-sucking demons, draining the flavour of the people who inhabit them and assimilating us into the Borg. Yes, we just made a Star Trek reference. Get over it.

The office in the suburbs is a master of stealth, a deadly quicksand in which we often find ourselves trapped. It sneaks up on us while we're busily distracted, wrapped up in keeping our unique urban identity and the pre-packaged individualism that we're desperate to hang on to, despite our move to the B-list.

Because that's what the suburbs are: the B-list of the urban empires. We mean no disrespect. In fact, we're very impressed by the resiliency of the suburbs. Many of them have become little urban hubs of their own, transcending the civic class structure.

Our time in the suburban office was surprisingly long: we hung out there for just over three years, with a brief escape of four months before voluntarily returning to the slow death. We now shudder at that realization; we came close that time.

It all begins nicely, pleasantly and encouraging. We're offered more money than we were making in the urban centre and there's ample parking. Ah yes, parking. Public transportation in the 'burbs still isn't as good as it is in the urban centre, so it's easier for us to get around by car. Increase that carbon footprint.

People seem happy and are welcoming. We have our own cubicle in the maze and we're encouraged to personalize our 'space'. Our cube-mates have visible tattoos so we're not as reserved about showing our own. There are a few young hipsters with facial piercings, too. Edgy.

After a few months we're comfortable and we let our guard down an inch or so at a time. We start to enjoy the extra money we're making and we look into purchasing our first home. Well, our first apartment, anyway. Colleagues are more than happy to talk to us about mortgage rates, lines of credit and using our RRSP for a down payment. Our partner is happy that we seem happy, so we stop asking ourselves if we are happy.

We get to work one day and notice discord among the cube-mates. Actually, we realize it's been there all along, we just didn't see it. The current runs deep beneath the surface, flowing steadily and eroding the foundation of everyone around us. But the surface is still, calm - until our guard is down long enough to notice the faint ripple on the surface that never disappears.

People start to complain about long hours and an even longer commute. We join in, having purchased a condominium in the nether lands of a new suburb outside of these suburbs. We're tired, away from our home for over 12 or 13 hours a day. We used to walk to work.

We can't remember the last time we met our best friend for coffee on The Drive or the last exhibit we saw at the Art Gallery. But we know exactly when we bought the designer handbag at Winners, because it was a hell of a deal according to the director of finance.

Suddenly we know more ways to save on designer goods than we know downtown art studios. The person who looks at us in the mirror has had hair foils and got their eyebrows waxed. We can afford these things now because it's all cheaper in the 'burbs, and we're making more money.

Somehow, despite all of this, we're broke. Emotionally, spiritually and deep within our very being. The thing that made us feisty, unique and fun is almost gone. We look around at our cube-mates and realize that the guy with the lip ring is listening to Coldplay. We wonder how we didn't notice that before.

After a quick call to the cyborg in human resources, we're done. We've given our notice and we're taking the rest of the day off - to find another job. It doesn't take long. We're good.

Then we go home. We take all of our Winners purchases and outlet mall finds and we list them on eBay, feeling the cleanse wash over us. It's like a salve for our spirit. We feel something twisting for freedom inside us, happy to be given room to move again after spending the last three years so tightly bound.

Our partner looks at us and sees the light return to our eyes. He tells us he's proud of us. We're happy again. Okay, so we're still stuck in the condo in the suburb of the suburb, but it's appreciating in value everyday so it's more like a big savings account we can live and cook in.

On our last day in the suburban office our colleagues throw us a big going-away party. There's cake, carbonated beverages and our boss sneaks us out to Aqua Riva for lunch. We share a bottle of wine and get half-tanked before going back to the office, late, where we retire to his cubicle and he tells us how much he wishes he could just walk away from it all. Like us.

We smile, thank him for a lovely lunch and the reference letter.

Then we leave. It was close. We can hear the quicksand sucking air behind us as our shoe lifts from the carpet one last time before we step out the door and into the afternoon sun.


~ Paige

administrative world #2: the rural wasteland

All offices are not created equal. That's a fundamental rule, one which is learned through experience, hard knocks and the occasional stab wound in the back.

When thinking of an office, most people conjure up images of cubicles, high-rise buildings and a bustling urban core. What do you think happens in rural communities? Everyone goes to the barn to milk the cows? Okay, some people actually do that. And we're not knocking the cow milking - we eat diary products. It's a good source of calcium.

Most rural communities have little mini-urban hubs where low-rise buildings have the same stature as those high-rises in urban centres do. In a rural community, many young people dream of movin' on up to the big time, settling into one of those 1960's sparkly-rock stuccoed boxes and pulling up their non-ergonomic chair to a faux wood grain desk. Doesn't that sound glam?

Maybe some rural areas have been updated to include fake marble, but most still have that government office feel from 1967 - complete with macrame plant hangers and round vinyl seating. Not the cool kind of round vinyl seating, either.

This is the administrative world in the rural community, and it's as rife with gossip, back-stabbing and stereotypes as their urban counterparts. Perhaps it's even more apparent in these small microcosms, simply because of the lack of filler - the acres of sub-middle management that can exist in urban offices but can't be justified in smaller rural ones.

We've worked in these little cesspools of conflict, and it isn't a pretty picture. Sure, on the outside one might see the happy, smiling 'secretary' (rural offices have a difficult time embracing the term 'administrative professional' - likely too many syllables). But around that happy, smiling secretary is a secret world of betrayal, unmet expectations, skeletons and ugly, ugly dirt.

We'd like to share some suggestions and insights with those rural office dwellers, if they would be so kind as to listen to some of our recommendations.

To the rural office professional:

• Just because you worked here for fifteen years doesn't mean that you're slated as next in line for whatever management job comes up; if you want to move ahead, get off your ass and get some education like we did.
• Take down the macrame planters - no one will take you seriously with a macrame planter hanging over your desk, regardless of how many diplomas you might have.
• Trash the typewriter; we've had computers for a while, and they're not going anywhere. Carbon copies are prehistoric, and make you look that way, too.
• Don't laugh when the office products salesman stops in and calls you 'hon'. It undermines our hard work. Tell him to address you by your actual name or get the hell out.
• Stop making the coffee. Someone else can. They've got hands. And while you're at it, stop cleaning the dirty dishes. You're not their mother. Okay, maybe you are (if it's a small town), but that's even more reason not to.

So we came from the 'big city' and are full of 'big city' ideas. Who cares? Take these ideas. Claim them as your own. We really don't care. But this advice is for your own good. The longer you remain the dithering secretary, the harder it is for administrative professionals everywhere to become more than the coffee-getter.

If you're working in an office in a small town and can't see yourself taking any of the recommendations we make, that's fine. We understand. But know that we're here. And at the first sign of weakness we'll pounce. Consider yourself warned.

There is another option. If you've been at this rural office gig for a while, maybe it's time you started thinking about retirement. We'll even break our own rules and throw you one hell of a retirement party, complete with paper streamers, one-time-use cutlery and bad singing.

But, for the love of all that's right and good, pick it up or get the hell out of the way.


~ Paige

administrative world #1: nirvana is not an oasis

Before we get started we need to clarify two things. One: the nirvana we mention here has nothing to do with the grunge-rock Seattle band, Nirvana (although we did and still do love to rock out to their albums). No, we refer to the nirvana which is akin to a perfect peace; a tranquil state of mind. Two: the oasis we mention here has nothing to do with the rock band, Oasis, from England (although we like to rock out to their albums, too). No, we refer to the oasis which is a refuge, a place preserved from surrounding unpleasantness.

Now that we've got the nirvana oasis thing down, let's continue.

A long time ago, in a land far, far away - well, actually only about 4.5 hours from where we live now - we once worked in an office that protested it was the nirvana of administration, the oasis of human resources. We were suckered in, like the rest, and we took a job with their HR department as an executive assistant to their Director.

We were wooed, bought flowers and given pre-loaded Starbucks cards. For the first week we were repeatedly told how happy the 'team' was to have us, and how our broad skill-set and talents beyond an administrative capacity would be challenged and appreciated in the wonderful cornucopia of talent that surrounded us.

It was shan-gri-la, a nirvana among HR teams, and a fertile oasis.

For about five working days.

That pre-loaded Starbucks card? Sure, we could use it for our own coffee-time beverages occasionally...just as long as we remembered to bring the Lord and Master an extra-hot-non-fat-no-whip-white-chocolate mocha. Every morning. In a reusable cup that we had to wash, digging the crud off the bottom from yesterday's mocha madness.

The lovely flowers? We had to process the payment of them when the credit card statement arrived; and we had to reimburse their cost to the boss from the meagre coffers of our 'staff employee appreciation fund'. Needless to say, we weren't very popular after that was discovered at the next discussion of the balance sheet.

And what of our skills that were beyond the traditional administrative capacity? Were we challenged and asked to participate in the broader team perspective? Maybe - if one accounts contributing to be doing the work of others without getting credit.

Our friends congratulated us on landing the sweet gig they thought we landed. For a few moments we thought we had landed it, too. But after the veneer peeled back and the stained, ugly surface revealed itself, we realized that no matter the pretty package, the oasis might just end up a mirage.

It sounds trite, but it's apt: if it sounds too good to be true, it usually is. We're still learning that.

We left that job and we haven't looked back. Except, of course, when we gaze upon the lovely (and rare) orchid that we liberated from the boss' office on our last day. We were the only ones taking care of it anyway. We don't think they miss it at all. Besides, it's doing much better with us.

Oh, but we miss the corporate credit card. That last charge of Starbucks gift cards? Well, we gave out $25 cards to the whole administrative support team before we left. And not just the HR team - the entire corporate team. At eighteen junior VP's, six senior VP's, three senior executives and the CEO's office...well, you do the math. We knew you would want us to thank our colleagues for their hard work on making you look smart, efficient and organized. You're welcome.

The admin who can survive in that environment - the one of the misguided nirvana - is one that we don't mess with. They're tough cookies. The rest of us bail as soon as we can, keeping an eye on our backside as we exit stage left.

Reportedly, our desk didn't stay vacant very long. There were a long line of admin professionals waiting to join the nirvana. We hope they left relatively unscathed.


~ Paige

the many worlds of administration

Just because someone works in an admin capacity in an office near you doesn’t mean that they will have the same experiences we’ve had. On the surface, the administrative world might appear fairly cookie-cutter: phones, filing and philandering. Okay, maybe not the philandering (depending on the office you attend, of course). We just wanted to use the word. Philandering. It’s phonetically pleasing. Just say it.

But it’s true, the admin thing – not all offices are created equally, and the heartsof offices in all areas don’t necessarily follow the same drum beat. We’ve had the opportunity to work in offices small and large, near and far – urban and rural. And yes, we’ve encountered differences between them that are as vast as the Grand Canyon. From different office cultures to different office clothing, the administrative world is as varied as can be.

We at The Vacant Desk have a few days to fill before we start bemoaning about our pixie-gift-fate, regaling you with tales of unpalatable discount store presents and covert attempts at hiding our identity from those we are the pixie-gifter for. So, in order to give you a wee bit of information on the collective We of office administration are, we thought we’d talk a bit about the differences in the admin world.

We’ll lump people together, make broad assumptions and give generalizations. We’ll sweep the stage with one brush. Somewhere along the way we may offend or inspire you. All outcomes are yours – you own them, not us. We take no responsibility for the discomfort or disappointment that may ensue.

Stay. Read. Be entertained, offended, titillated or whatever else suits your fancy. But, above all else, be warned. It ain’t always pretty – it’s a facade. It’s what we’re paid to do, after all: make things look and sound pretty. And we’re pretty good at it.


~ Paige

office gift-giving scam

Whoever came up with the idea that we need to give our colleagues a holiday gift should, well, be forced to use each and every one of their own lame gifts they give others.

We're not talking about the good bottles of 12-year-old scotch or fabulous Bordeaux that the executives get and give one another; no, we're talking about the dollar-store-on-your-lunch-break gifts. The under-$10-gifts. Or less.

In all the years of office bad-gifting, we've seen the good, the bad and the very ugly. There have been a few good: like the mixed CD that someone burned for us which helped us pick some new bands to listen to (made by the uber-music geek that had a crush on us, but still). The bad have been more prevalent: coffee mugs, ten-year-old ornaments and bargain-basement chocolates (ripped off from the brand name and filled with horrid innards).

Ultimately, though, there have been a few very ugly gifts. We once received an expired gift certificate. Yeah, that was awkward. And there have even been some over-the-top religious gifts, too - like the scary angel tree-topper who had eyes that followed us around the room until we hid her in the garbage can.

The ultimate in bad office-gifting is the invention of "pixie days". This is when (oh joy) we have the opportunity to be a secret 'Santa' for an entire week, sneaking around and ducking in and out of offices when those around us least expect it. The combination of five days of cheap/tacky gifts bought for someone we barely know while trying to maintain anonymity is incredibly stressful.

This year, dear followers, your Vacant Desk is the participant in another round of pixie days. Of course, the gifts our receiver will get will totally rock. And we'll share with you the slightly sad display of gifts we are bound to receive.

Our suggestion for next year is this: give yourself an awesome gift and to hell with the rest of them. We'll happily lead that conga line.


~ Paige

twit, tweet

The Vacant Desk is now on Twitter! Yes, we will become significantly more active. Promise.

Watch the blog and twitter for water cooler stories and zippy one-liners. We'll be dishing the office dirt like nobody's business.

From double-dippers at the office pot-luck lunch (eeeewww), to who's hoarding the pencils and even the odd confession (like how we once used the office printer to dash off a copy of our friend's 400 page manuscript - well, three copies...okay, eight copies), The Vacant Desk will be baring it all.

Stay. Share. Tell your friends. Or we will.


~ Paige

the newbie

It began as an ordinary enough day. Someone had left the shredder bag full, thus making it impossible for the next person to use it without emptying it first. There was also a sink full of dirty dishes that had been piling up since Monday. Today was now Thursday. You get the picture.

Somewhere along the timeline of a relatively ordinary put-me-out-of-my-misery-where-are-the-zombies-when-you-need-them day, someone did something to reach an entirely new level of ridiculous. That particular bar is fairly high in the world of a government office. Ridiculous goes on everyday, all day, all the time. But this was special.

I was sitting at my desk, scanning through a binder full of accounting codes in search of the one combination that would be appropriate for the item I needed to, well, account for. To give a visual representation of the type of hell I was in, let me put it this way: imagine a yourself in a large room filled with filing cabinets. Your task is:

Step one: find the right cabinet.
Step two: find the right drawer.
Step three: find the right file within that right drawer, which is within the right cabinet.
Step four: make sure you found the right cabinet.

And so, I was sitting at my desk, pouring over the various combinations of accounting codes that could represent this one invoice I needed to process. The binder is a three-inch, three-ring job that has seen better days. And it's full. Of accounting codes. Yep.

While hunched over the desk with terrible posture, I heard a cell phone ring. Our office has what are called 'pooled' cell phones; that is, no one person gets her or his own, but takes one with them if needed upon leaving the office on work-related business. Personal cell phones are rare with this lot of employees, so the sound of one generally means that it's a work phone ringing.

The soft-porn ring tone (who chooses these things?) interrupted me in my daze of numbers. I looked up to see one of our new, fresh out of university employees. She stood in front of me, held the phone out as if for me to take it, and she said the most astounding thing.

"It's ringing. What should I do?"

Ladies and gentlemen, I promise you that I'm not making this up.

I bent my head back down over my binder and replied to her in my most serious voice.

"I don't know. Maybe you should answer it?"

"Do you think so?", she asked.

"I'm not sure", I replied. "I honestly don't use those for my job."

Somewhere inside of me, a little bit of niceness wanted to lay down and die at that very moment. It was briefly taken over by a cynical, bitter old thought that wanted desperately to plant itself in the fertile soil of my generally optimistic mind.

Later that evening, I shoved the bitter thought aside and rejuvenated the optimism with a glass of wine. I thought about that young employee and what she was experiencing in this, her first professional job. At the tender age of 26. Yes. Her first actual job. How she must be so intimidated by all the trappings of office life: the copier, the fax machine...and those complicated cell phones.

I tried not to think of how I, at the age of 26, had been living on my own for eight years. I had been manager of a large retail centre with over a dozen employees. I had paid my own rent, phone and electric bills. I had cooked and cleaned for myself, with no one to do the dishes I left in the sink at night. No one but me.

Yes, it may be difficult to enter the strange world of professional work in one's late twenties. But it's also difficult for the rest of us to put up with their belated growing pains as we wait to vacate our desks in pursuit of what we truly want to do.

Somehow, we have to find a happy neutral place to work in the meantime. Perhaps the young ones, first time at the job, could do a bit more research on what it means to be a professional in an office.

I, on the other hand, will spend more time drinking wine and reviving the optimist in me. It's going to be tough, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.


~ Paige

The Vacant Desk: an introduction

Greetings to our educated masses; most of whom are my friends and the rest, well, I'm sure we'll meet over a pint or a glass of vino one day in the near future.

It's the end of another day of working for The Man. Regardless of where you work, or who you work for, those of you who have a job that's biding time until something else comes along - or you publish that winning novel - will be able to relate to working for The Man. Others may know friends or family who work for The Man. Perhaps you are currently working for The Man, but are in the denial phase. The denial phase comes right after the disaffected wanderer phase and slightly before the crestfallen idealist phase. Please check your status, and then return to reading this post.

I'm a writer. At least, that's what I tell myself. I'm happily struggling through my first novel - a fictional bit that is a little Canadiana and a little murder mystery. It's sort of like a "where's Waldo", but instead of looking for a funny fellow in a striped shirt, readers can play spot-the-Canadianism. Or they can just read a fun read. Whichever.

However, happily struggling through a first novel doesn't make a good fit should one wish to engage in regular mortgage payments and keep a balanced Canada Food Guide diet. So, I hold a job in an office. A government office at that. What an unusual world that is.

Few jobs are as transferable as that in office administration. I don't mean Administration - where people wear expensive suits, hold conferences (not meetings) and receive significantly higher salaries. No, I don't mean that - although doesn't it sound nice some days. I mean answer-the-phone-and-process-the-mail-and-sometimes-maybe-format-a-letter administration. Organization of the company paperwork, if one will. Management of rows of letters and words on reams of paper. Filing. Stationary ordering. Jane & Jack of all trades stuff.

I know there are many others like me out there, labouring in jobs taken temporarily until something better comes along or that one thing is finished/published/written/painted/sold. Maybe, like me, some of you have even had a few of these jobs, moving along the company ladder instead of up it. Just enough change in title, telephone extension and cubicle to keep you engaged for another few months, but not enough to keep you from updating your resume every week and checking out the help wanted section over your microwaved Lean Cuisine lunch.

This will be a record of our collective, ongoing, silent plight. It will capture the tales we tell to one another over coffee in environmentally friendly reusable mugs. Mugs that we have collected through years of office gifts for Administrative Professionals Week. Mugs that have happy, funny little sayings like "you don't have to be crazy to work here, but it helps", or "so freakin' happy I can just scream".

Here, among the hallowed pages of the Internet (and likely owned in some way, shape or form by Google), we will share our frustrations about those who don't empty the communal shredder. We will rail against those who politely inform us that the copier needs a refill, and who then walk away. We will sneer at the person who, repeatedly, leaves the jammed stapler in the file room.

It is here that we will laugh at incorrectly addressed envelopes, gossip about someones tendency to hoard stationary and complain about the unwashed dishes left in the lunch room sink. We will find many, many other stories to share which reflect how desperately and quietly our hope, creativity & ambitions are being slowly eroded.

Think that's all The Vacant Desk will do? Please. My sense of self and stinging, wry wit hasn't completely withered up. Yet.

The Vacant Desk will be a beacon of light and hope for those working for The Man. It will help us shore up our crumbling inner self. Through the telling of tales we will remind ourselves - and each other - that we are valuable, educated and worthy of much more than a novelty mug.

Once in a while, we might be able to see that, despite the price we are paying in the interim, there is a door at the end of this long hallway. We will reach that door, turn the handle and enter the world we are meant to enter after transcending this temporary space.

We will leave behind a vacant desk, and nothing more.


~ Paige