In the bleary-eyed hour as I trudge into the office I encounter a tableaux of smells. Some mornings the oleaginous odors of the commissary drift across my path, other days the wind blows across the loading docks carrying the plumes of diesel exhaust. Still mornings are amusing at best.

People of all colored collars utilize the same entrance I do and I have found that position or salary does not have any bearing on their toilette. The bright-eyed young professional men and women smell of modern fragrances, fresh citrus, light sandalwood tones, and wet hair. Older professionals, almost always men, smell of leather and tweed; the kind of smell that a perfumer would attempt when looking to capture the essence of the cigar bar. In the off chance one catches a seasoned professional woman, they would be whisked away to 8th arrondissement of Paris where due to size of waist and pocketbook limit these women to the cosmetics counter. Unfortunately the group that I admire the most is dwindling as fast as promises of early-retirement buyouts — the older men who smell of talc and pomade.

Conversely there are those of immigrant-worker status who are increasing in number. Obnoxious smells of mustard oil, fenugreek, and cumin mix with the flowery scents of wintergreen, eucalyptus, peppermint, and camphor. On warm summer mornings, one can expect this ethnic bazaar mix with the deodorant soaps and over-applied dime-store “body spray” used by those who either don’t bother looking for a befitting fragrance or have no faith in the laundering of their garments. The winter brings us the gym-bag toting stuffed shirts that smell of soured towels, sweat, and the nervousness of keeping a job as well as keeping a new year’s resolution.

This brings me to this morning. I was greeted with the bazaar, tickled with the talc, but curiously one gentleman smelled of Play-Doh. I think it’s a long shot to assume he was wearing the 2006 Demeter limited edition fragrance “Play-Doh”. I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps there was some kind of alchemic reaction with all the people commuting, essentially drafting behind one another to make the smell of Play-Doh. Talc, mustard seeds, white flower essential oil, the ripe bartlett pear in my backpack?

I’ve been late, a lot. Chronically late for work. My mornings have dragged on and I realize that I can streamline the process to get out the door quicker. It’s not the shower, the wardrobe, the creative ways of cobbling together a ‘nutritious’ breakfast. A big part of my morning is preparing coffee.

I mourn for my super automatic coffee maker. With a touch of a button the grinding mechanism would activate, the water pump would whir followed immediately by the sound confidence and courage pouring into my cup.

Busier mornings, preparing coffee was less courtly. The outside foam of an insulated disposable cup would blister in the microwave as milk heated; foaming milk on that machine was a chore, and I would collect the coffee in a pre-warmed turkish coffee pot which contained sweetener. As the coffee streamed in, I would give the pot a swirl to properly mix the bitter and sweet then pour the contents into the disposable cup. Zero to bliss in ~50 seconds.

My super automatic coffee maker conked out last spring. We’ve had no plans to replace it, but since I’ve been running late for the past few weeks I think I can justify its high cost. In fact, I’ve paused in the middle of writing this to check prices. Despite the failing dollar, they’ve come done in price. I know the snuff will object, but he’s a sucker for a good crema.

I had to get my fingerprints taken. It wasn’t my first time, but it was the first time where I had to fill in my own information on the fingerprint card. Name, address, social security number, sex… fine. Date of birth, mother’s maiden name, weight… getting a little personal, but fine.

Then – Eye color, hair color, race… is this a lonely hearts application?

Okay, I guess this would have been better if the fingerprint tech was a young strapping handsome man with a deep voice (possibly accent) and a slight smile when looking at me. Each attribute would be read followed by a dramatic pause to look at me, then discussed as an endearing quality. I would then coyly accept any flattering compliments. Later he would be haunted by my imminently kissable visage, and not be satisfied until he saw me again.

In reality, I sat in a hard plastic chair while a weathered old man barked… Brown, BRN; Black, BLK; Oriental, O. My eyes are tenebrous and boundless, my hair is a very dark brown, and in my opinion we have progressed in this country I and though I can’t be (P)acific Islander, I could at least be (A)sian. Even the US government has recognized that race is an “all that apply” option on some documents, but I guess when faced with a 1cm box, you’re limited in how you can express yourself.

I have had to pay for taking time off away from work. I have broken one of my fundamental rules and have brought work home a few nights. I sit here now knowing that there is plenty to do, but I’m enjoying the quiet.

Office work aside things are piling up here at home. Given are the piles of laundry, the office desk clutter, the meals prepped and yet to be planned; but the worst job of all is television. Entertainment has become a chore. Things on live television, shows on-demand that are about to expire, the shrinking space on my recording device, video games, new music, books, audio books, movie rentals in the mail box…

I’m writing this with the television muted because I like to hear the drone of the oscillating fan yet don’t want to miss out if anything important. I see moving blobs and bright colors flashing in my periphery enticing me to stay tuned for more blobs and bright colors. There is a blinking lower third and a scrolling news crawl telling me what I should be aware of, but I’m too tired to multi-task media.

In the grand scheme of things I know none of this, including this blog, is not of any cultural significance. Yet I type away and do my best to filter in hopes that something comes along… perhaps Godot?