I quit my job last week. And while I'd like to save the finer points of that particular decision for a future post, the fact that it happened is crucial to understanding this one.
On my first day of employment at Square more than two years ago I was given a seat next to Kari, a gorgeous, nose-ringed blond with a penchant for breakfast food and a vocabulary fine-tuned by a longstanding obsession with The New Yorker. Because of the long hours we worked and the close proximity in which we worked them we became fast friends, Kari and I, in spite of the fact that she indifferently spilled food on my jeans at least once a day and kept her feet perpetually on the arm of my office chair, whether I was occupying it or not. After several weeks of knowing each other, Kari and I fell into a routine that included long weeks at the office and too-fast weekends spent sipping beers in the Lower Haight and eating burritos in her bed. Needless to say, she was and still is my West Coast bestie.
Last week, after I told Kari that I was leaving Square, she asked if I wanted a party. I told her that I wished my exit to be as low-key as possible and that a few hugs over drinks in the neighborhood would suffice. Naturally, she ignored my request as if I'd never made it and sent the following lightly factual, heavily embarrassing email entitled "Later Gator (Goodbye Drinks for Corey)" to myself and 40 or so of my co-workers last night.
Once upon a gay, in the little town of Muskrat, Michigan, baby Corey Jimboner Lambert was born to an infallible pair of high school sweethearts. The third of four children, Corey was a Lego-haired little sailor-mouthed sass muffin right outta the gate. "We quickly stopped trying with him," his mom told me while the Wine Guy in Dolores Park topped off her Chardonnay on one of her recent visits to the Bay Area. And, like a weed, Corey's parents let him grow until he blossomed into the wily Pan of wit and hubris that we're all so fond of.
Corey arrived at Square two years ago on the glittery wings of a grammatically perfect haiku (seriously, he wrote his cover letter in haiku). While he was spending his first San Francisco days settling into a Van Ness drug den by color-coordinating his hoodies and listening to Rebecca Black's "Friday" on repeat, Adam M. and I were stalking him all the way across the Internet (check out his DailyBooth if you haven't already) to ensure that we knew everything about the outsider Maja hired at a bar. Roughly 30 minutes into Corey's first day of work he called me out on a backdoor-brag by referencing (and then flawlessly impersonating) Penelope from Saturday Night Live and I knew all would be well.
Corey modestly lays claim to giving the best hugs ever, so make sure to get yours after work this Thursday. We're having a gathering in celebration of one of the best co-workers and friends a girl could ask for. I hope you can make it.
In spite of that email and of the fact that my dry cleaning bills will be significantly lower now that Kari will have far fewer opportunities to spill food on my clothes, knowing that I'll be seeing her a lot less really does make me sad, even if she was entirely wrong about my hair.