Anyway, the title of today's post has nothing to do with Raven Symone and everything to do with me finally achieving one of this past year's biggest goals.
I finally have a work identity in the HR department.
When my friends and family hear my name, they automatically generate a specific image in their minds. And while that image may be that of a writer, blogger,
My boss is a rather reserved gentleman and developing a work rapport has been slow-coming. He knows I listen to a lot of Elton John on Spotify ...
... and that's about it.
But not anymore!
As I briefly mentioned in a weekend recap a few weeks ago, I've managed to completely break 2 different 3-hole punchers in the span of only 6 months. And I didn't just kind of damage them, I literally destroyed them beyond repair. You know the arm on the top that is supposed to push down and drive the holes through the paper? Yeah, that arm is no longer mobile on either puncher. I tried to hide the second wrecked puncher in my desk drawer in hopes that my boss wouldn't notice, but he inevitably asked me where it was just a day or so later.
"That's coming out of your paycheck," he joked. At least I think he was joking. I should probably check my pay stub ...
So I've been using a "loaner" 3-hole puncher he brought from a different department and he purposely gave me a giant, industrial-sized one that can withstand even Courtney-sized damage. It's like, the Otter Box of 3-hole punchers.
It's huge and gwady, takes up way too much desk space, and makes an eery creaking noise every time I use it, but I've been forced to suffer while we wait for the new 3-hole puncher to arrive in the mail.
Well, guess what? The new 3-hole puncher arrived today! When I received the package, I tore it open and practically danced over to my boss's office.
"Look!" I said proudly, holding the box above my head reminiscent of the witch doctor monkey proudly displaying baby Simba on Pride Rock. "It came!"
And then, for absolutely no logical reason at all, the box slipped out of my hands and went crashing to the ground. There wasn't a sudden gust of wind. I didn't trip or lose my footing. The box just magically and mysteriously fell to the ground. (I suspect ghosts.)
My boss looked at the shiny new 3-hole puncher now lying on the ground and said, "That is such a Courtney thing to do."
So it looks like I am officially known as the clumsy, destructive girl who is the sole reason why our office can't have anything nice.
And in spite of myself, I was like, "Oh my gosh, thank you so much!"
It doesn't matter how I'm remembered, I just want to be remembered. I've had a few jobs where I was just a faceless employee wandering the halls and it was miserable. (Although at my last job I was "The Girl Who Always Wore a Scarf", which was awesome.) I've always wanted that one, special thing that would set me apart from the rest when meeting new people: "Hello, I'm Courtney, and I am a mini tornado. Don't leave a vase or an infant around me because I will break it." I can't even express how stoked I am to finally have a personal brand, albeit a slightly unflattering one (I secretly hoped it would be that I've been to space camp).
I've never had aspirations to be the office skank, the office nark, the office gossip, the office snob, the office grouch, the office person who's just generally bad at their job, the office clown—none of that.
But office klutz?
I'll take it.