"These papers are important! Call the President of Canada!" *stamping things loudly*
Today she had to step out to the post office. Our stamp machine is on the fritz, so she has to buy proper stamps. Our nearest post office is in La Maison Ogilvy. Going there is so odd. You walk into a luxury department store and head to the elevator, walking past shiny displays and beautiful young women who seem to know how to apply make-up correctly. It's impressive. You pass cosmetics that cost entirely too much and blue-haired old ladies that raise their game up a notch by also having small dogs that are blue. It's magical in a financially-offensive way.
Once on the fourth floor you walk through a sparse menswear display. Off to your right if a small nook that houses the Canada Post desk. It's just so odd to mail your two-dollar letter next to 700$ jeans. Every-time I go I can't help look around and just feel out of place. I expect to be asked to leave. It's like walking into a scene from The Wolf of Wall Street meets The Devil Wears Prada. Seeing people that look like the Rich Dicks from Kroll Show up close is really upsetting. The 1% is real and it just does not make any sense to me.
Moving on.
Our landlord is presently renovating seemingly-everything. Our lease is up, and the usual-slum-lord is now deciding to give half-a-shit. This means our main entrance is closed for renovation, and that technicians and labourers of all kinds come into the office often.
Just now a utility belt-wearing-guy came up and asked if I "saw Kevin." This is how that interaction went:
Guy: Have you seen Kevin?
Me: No, I don't know who Kevin is.
Guy: Well he is suppose to meet me here. He forgot his cell phone in the car.
Me: Well I don't know him, he doesn't work here - and he's not here. Feel free to look around for him.
Guy: Oh no, what do I do?
Me: Well I don't know who he is, I'm sorry, I can't really help you.
Guy: *stands there*
Me: Do you want to leave a message of your name and number, and if a lost-looking Kevin shows up, I'll give it to him?
Guy: Okay! I'm Sebastian! Here's my number!
Me: Okay, no problem.
Sebastian: Thanks! *skips away merrily*
I now have an orange post-it note scribbled with Sebastian's number on it. And every-time a labourer walks in I ask, from across the loft-style studio: "Are you Kevin?"
And nobody is Kevin.
I also find it especially odd to take a message for someone who doesn't work here from someone who doesn't work here.
Are you Kevin?
