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Just Call Me The Shredmistress

I usually refrain from writing about work here, unless it’s in the most general of terms. And this seems to be a good policy, as Heather of Dooce can attest to. But I’m heading in shortly, where I am expecting a bit of much-deserved teasing…for my excessive clumsiness there on Friday. You see, my boss ordered an industrial strength paper shredder…brilliantly named The Shredmaster. It arrived Friday while she was out and was set up in the only area with room for it…my office. Naturally I felt the need to check out the big hulking beast, you know, kick the tires and whatnot. But someone had set the thick sheaf of operating instructions atop it. While poking around I managed to bump them, knocking the manual right into the feeder…where it was sucked in and rather efficiently ripped to shreds. It all happened so quickly. I was too stunned to press the stop button. Or even think of it until later. Afterwards I was horrified but couldn’t help but have myself a little laughing fit. I’ve been trying to keep my behavior on the downlow, but lord only knows what my new co-workers think of me now. In non-shredding news, this morning the little man asked me if my hands were cold. The coffee hadn’t kicked in yet so I mumbled something along the lines of “uh, yeah, whatever”. Before I knew it he’d started blowing on my hands, like I do to his when we’ve been playing outside for too long, only he was doing a seriously good (and unintentional) Darth Vader impersonation. Too bad he wasn’t in costume. Come to think of it, he was, actually…but he was wearing his ill-fitting monkey suit from Halloween 2002 rather than a proper Darth Vader costume.

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