Attention Employee: Office Holiday Party

An email that went out to my business "associates."

In the spirit of the holidays and because everyone else we know has office/company christmas parties, I've decided to make my own. I know you guys, my fellow freelancers, actor's assistants, writers, "entrepreneurs" and unemployed friends, will appreciate this one.

Begin forwarded message:

Please join me at my office holiday party. Celebrating the season's festivities and a toast to the employee of the year, AVB. The party will take place starting on Monday, December 17th during office hours: 11 pm - 3 am extending through Christmas and into the New Year. During the party, I will be revealing my secret santa, a refreshment will be served and don't be surprised if karaoke makes its way into the festivities! Dress code is business casual (read: flannel pajamas and old camp tee shirts). Please be on your best behavior as a photographer (me with a camera) will be documenting the event and photos will be available for purchase. 

Please note that due to recent cutbacks and a flagging economy, the annual holiday bonus will not be given this year. Instead a "donation" has been made in AVB's name to the Human Fund, funding humans where they need it most.

Please RSVP to AVB in the HR department.

Happy Holidays!

AVB
President, Founder, sole proprietor, etc. etc.



Dictated, but not read.

A Well-Worn Shelf Life

My books tell the story of my life. Just by seeing the spines staring back at me from my bedroom bookshelf I can tell exactly how old I was when I read them. Years of reading have ruined my distance vision, so I can't make out the titles, but I can still see how well-thumbed, broken-spined and tattered the books are. From there, I can usually guess the author. For instance, the thick-spined pastel-colored paperbacks, so wrinkled as to be labeled fragile, are from ages 13-18 and are most likely the works of Edith Wharton, Henry James, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, the Brontes and Sharon Olds. This was an age where I was careless with my books. Pages are marked up with notes, doubled dog-eared and sentences underlined. As I grew older, first edition hardbacks prevailed, looking as if the spines have never been cracked. I try to keep my books clean and new looking, saving them for a generation of children I may/may not have.  Books rarely leave the safety zone of by bedroom. Magazines are for the subway and train. Newspapers are for waiting on a friend at the coffee shop. 

Today my thoughts on my pristine hardcovers and paperbacks changed. I'm in the middle of reading "A Three Dog Life" by Abigail Thomas. I seem to find this book following me everywhere -- and typically, near water. She's (yes, this book has a gender) made her way on the ledge of my bathroom sink, sitting precariously close to the bathtub, on my small antique writing desk where a few drops of water from my glass hit her cover. She ended up in my bag last night and then in my hands as I tried to read her and drink tea while walking home from the subway -- her edges now tea-stained. 

Abigail Thomas writes of living a life with three dogs after the man she loves is left brain damaged and with "a collapsible memory." The idea of leaving an imprint behind seeps into the pores of my copy. I like that the book is becoming a little tattered. In lieu of my beloved dog, I now think of my books as companions, constantly by my side, providing me comfort at night, inspire me when I need it and filled with love both inside and on their very surface.