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had designed an office building, this is what it would look like.
    Fortunately, our actual office has carpet. Cheap industrial carpet that is about as thick as a gambler’s wallet the day after payday, but it’s carpet. It pads our feet and keeps the floor warm. I open the main door and walk into the office. There is a reception area the size of two or three graves shoved together without any chairs, and then to the right a long hallway, with three offices on either side. At the end of the hall is something the owner, Greg, calls a “kitchen” but I call it a supply closet with a sink in it.
    Want coffee? Get it from the donut shop next door. Same if you need to respond to nature’s call. Greg doesn’t provide fancy fringe benefits like bathrooms, microwaves, coffee machines, or even pens. He uses the freebies he gets at the bazillion marketing conventions he attends (on the company dime, of course).
    To be fair, we get plenty of freebies in this line of work, too. You go to enough mystery shops at banks and open a new account, you get to keep your free pens, notepads, water bottles, can cozies, toasters, smartphone cases, and other assorted swag that you receive.
    Greg is super-cheap about outfitting the office, but he doesn’t skimp on health insurance. I might make slightly more than a full-time assistant manager at the Gap, but I have one hundred percent employer-paid health insurance, so I’m not complaining.
    Plus, he pays mileage for all our driving. Which adds up, fast. You drive a piece of junk like I do and you need the fifty-five cents for each mile to feed the hamsters that keep it going.
    “Oooh, someone got lucky last night. You’re walking like a woman who got what she needed and then some,” Josh says, winking as I limp into the office. Josh is the company tech expert, which means we all think he’s a little bit shaman, a little bit magician, and mostly a nerd.
    My glare should make him spontaneously combust, or at least turn into a hedgehog with a profound case of psoriasis, but no such luck. “Not even close. I hurt my inner thighs sitting on the toilet this morning.”
    His eyebrows shoot up and disappear into his disappearing hairline. “You need more fiber.”
    “I need a lot of things, Josh.” Limp. Limp. I feel like I’ve been riding a Shetland pony for three days. At least I don’t have saddle sores. But Josh’s original idea, of having a man do this to me in bed…Mr. Sexy Suit comes to mind. Not the pompous ass who made me flush my own hand and cell phone, but the one I turned into Mr. Dreamy before The Great Toilet Fiasco of 2014.
    I have the second door on the left, sandwiched between Josh and Amanda. My office smells like pine and vinegar, which means it must be Thursday. The cleaning crew came through the night before. I hang up my purse, pull out the baggie with rice and my phone in it and put it in my windowsill to bake in the sun, and flip my computer on.
    Amanda’s left a note on my desk: Leave it for two days in a baggie full of rice. If it doesn’t work, we’ll get you a new one. Greg won’t be happy, but too bad. Hope your hand doesn’t fall off from germs.
    It’s so nice to have a friend who really gets your OCD phobias. Or who understands your mom. Or both.
    “Shannon? I recovered your data,” Josh says, scaring the hell out of me. He moves like a vampire, suddenly behind you in your office. I think he likes it. Office sadist.
    But I forgive him, because what ? “You recovered my shops?” Hope springs eternal.
    “It’s all in the cloud now, so thank me for setting that app up and forcing Greg to spend money on something worthwhile. Everything is in there but the last one, because you didn’t hit save.” I get a scowl that makes me think Chuckles is more evolved than most humans. Josh looks like a lamb pretending to be mad.
    “I was perched over a men’s toilet trying not to watch a man whip it out. Don’t you dare shame me.”
    “The only shame is that