flair

The Sober Husband has been at his new job for several weeks, and he's still happy as a clam at high tide. The only criticism that has been levelled at him to date came from his new company's founder. "We need to do something about your cubicle," said the founder, as he gazed around at the completely blank walls and the lack of personal effects. The Sober Husband had failed to bring in any trinkets or toys, while the other employees all have decorated their cubicles. In his own defense, the Sober Husband said on the spot, "I have a whole house at home for that kind of thing", but that didn't stop him from devoting a large portion of the weekend to going through his things and putting together a box of crap, err, treasures, to decorate his cubicle.

Today he reports that another colleague stopped by his cubicle and poked through the Sober Husband's gewgaws. "What's all this?" The Sober Huband explained about the founder's remarks, and the coworker instantly got it. "Ah, this is your seventeen pieces of flair." Precisely. (Note: if this makes no sense to you, rent the delightful comedy "Office Space").

It's been a long time since I had an office, and I don't remember having much "flair" on display. I had a little stuffed lion on top of my monitor and a small photo of the Sober Husband when we were dating, and I used to hang a big watercolor on the wall which I bought for myself when I graduated from law school (it's currently hanging in my kitchen, along with my framed diplomas. My kitchen is the closest I have to an office). When I worked at a large law firm, I wasn't into having executive desk toys or special paperweights or anything of the sort. I did, however, crave having an office pet. In particular, I used to wish I could have a pet rat at the office. I knew better than to attempt having one as a mere junior associate. If I worked at the Sober Husband's hip start-up, I'd agitate for an office rodent.