What’s it all mean, Basil?

I see a lot of GB bumper stickers on cars around London. Every time I see one, I immediately think, “It’s amazing that someone this far away from Massachusetts would have a Great Barrington sticker on their car. That’s pretty cool.” And then my brain starts functioning again and I think, “Really, Lisa. When are you going to stop being an idiot EVERY TIME you see that?”

It took me until yesterday, but I finally noticed that the hand bars/poles (is there even a technical term for them?) on the Tube are color coded to match their respective line. This will help prevent me from taking the green line when I really want the yellow line making me 15 minutes late for work because I don’t realize I’ve gotten on the wrong train until I’m 5 stops into the train ride and then I have to get out at Earl’s Court (where the hell is Earl’s Court anyway?) go up 50 stairs only to walk back down 50 stairs to get on the green line back to where I came from and then get on the yellow train I should have taken in the first place and ride 30 minutes into the city. Good thing I caught this early.

Do you think Sporty Spice feels lonely and sad when the rest of the Spice Girls bring their kids on stage with them? (Actually, I think having no kids is way better than being Eddie Murphy’s baby’s mama. But that’s just my personal preference.)

Unfortunately in my new office setup I no longer sit right across from G (collective sigh). I mean, he still sits close enough that I can hear his silverware and plates rattling at breakfast time AND lunch time, but not close enough to hear his incessant rambling. The guy who does sit across from me is boring. I have no idea what his name is and he’s a boss of some kind so I can’t make frankfurter jokes with him. However, this little tidbit totally made my day…maybe it might be okay after all:
Employee who looks like John Mayer who also works for Mr. Boring: “Can I leave at quarter to five today? I have a thing in my ear and I want someone to have a look at it.”

Lots of people have asked me how the Boston office is different from the London office. And by lots I mean more than 6 and less than 9. Yet I’m caught off guard each time they ask this, and I think I give a different answer depending on what’s in proximity to me at the time (Boston has less plants; London has a nicer coffee machine; there are more middle-aged balding men in the London office; Boston has more Thai employees; in Boston it’s easier for me to hide the fact that I’m on the internet 6 hours a day, etc. etc. etc.) I’m not sure what people are expecting my answer to be. I mean, a corporate office is pretty much a corporate office no matter where you are. There will always be cubicles, a bubbler that produces lukewarm water, water all over the countertop in the women’s bathroom, boogers on the wall over the urinals in the men’s bathroom, mirrors in the elevator for last minute hair checking, adjustable chairs that are so abrupt you could break your coccyx, a person who coughs every 15 seconds, a person who sneezes 8 times in a row, a person who insists on having their speaker phone set to 500 decibels for every call they make, vending machines with tempting snacks, and microwaves that smell like shrimp fried rice. I’d say the biggest difference I’ve seen between the Boston, Sydney, and London offices are the trashcans. I’m not kidding! This is the biggest, and most important I might add, difference – Boston has both a normal trashcan and a recycling trashcan at every desk. Sydney only had tall, bizarre cardboard trashcans (with no lining) that warned you against putting any “wet waste” in them (I made sure to ignore this stupid rule). And London? Well, like I said, London has no trashcans. You have to walk to the kitchen for that luxury. Personally, I’d settle for even more bald men if it means better trashcans.