Sent home from work

In the past two weeks I've been sent home from work twice. That means that over a 14 day period, for two days management has considered me so unfit for active employment that it would be better for everyone if I wasn't there.

To be fair, the second time was because I was dealing with a bit of flu. I looked like poo after coming in for an hour of work that the boss told me my work could wait until the next day. That was nice of him.

But the first time I was sent home was for a less expected reason. The first time I smelled so bad I couldn't possibly stay at the office.

Yes, you read that correctly. And now the story:

It seems I was endowed with a bit of luck and won a slab of smoked salmon in a raffle. My tastebuds and I were excited, so upon receipt of the salmon slab, I toodled up to Tony's place with crackers and cream cheese to enjoy my spoils.

You might call me a noob, but my experience with smoked salmon this far has been quite, um, dry. So when I opened this package of fish on Tony's counter, I was surpised to have it slurp out like an oiled salmon foetus. Fortunately all the salmon-y juices were contained within the cardboard box it had come in, so cleanup was easy.

I went on to eat. It was tasty.

At the end of the evening, I packed up what was left of the fish to go home. The cardboard box was too big to throw away into Tony's garbage, so I brought it home. Realizing it was too big for our garbage too, I propped it up beside the entrace to our place and left it over night.

Apart from the slight smell of smoked salmon in the apartment the next morning, we woke up to another normal work day. I put on my favourite brown suit, my favourite black all-weather jacket and prepared for a great day. On my way out the door, I grabbed the smoked salmon box (not noticing the small puddle of oil it had left behind on the hardwood) and carried it to the garbage on the way out of the building.

On most days, Natalie and I walk together downtown. It's about 15 minutes to the train station where we part ways. Half-way there, Natalie stops and sniffs the air:

"Something smells like crap."

"Yeah, I can smell it too. Probably just the garbage bins a half a block away."

"No, I don't think that's it... oh, baby, look at your jacket."

She found the source of the smell. Day old smoked salmon oil/juice was dribbled decadently down the length of my jacket. Where my jacket ends at my knee, the oily substance was splattered all over my right pant leg and onto my new brown dress shoes. After walking for 4 blocks, I'd already successfully transfered the oil onto my left leg. And now, as I look closer, I can see it's on my briefcase too.

"Oh, that's not cool."

We finish our walk with Natalie no longer holding onto my arm. I'm suddenly hyper-aware of the smell of decaying fish surrounding my. I note that there's some oil on my hand too and I try to wipe it off but only succeed in smearing a greater surface area of stench.

As I enter my building I pray not to share a full elevator.

Maybe I'll just walk up the stairs today. Yeah, that's it, and mix salmon and sweat for a special combo aroma.

In the office, all I can smell is my putridity. I start to be concerned about keeping an oil on my clothing for too long. Is this something they can get out at the cleaners?

I only had to walk into the bosses office for a few moments before he figured out there was only one solution. Through two hands cupped over his mouth and nose: "You need to go home, change and get your clothing drycleaned."

So I was sent home in shame to smell less awful. Ironically, my drycleaner is called Fishman's.

After wasting at least an hour and a half in the unstink I found myself in the elevator up to work. I looked in the mirrored wall at something on my nose... a smear of fish oil. The insult on the injury.