Today I went out to our office in Connecticut. It's located in a very white upper class bastion of Fairfield County. The place is awash with WASPs of multiple generations, people you simply know could trace their descendants back to the Mayflower. Looking upon the fair locals with their cool expressions and Lily Pulitzer sports wear, it's evident they are a different breed of people and that this is a very exclusive community. In truth, it freaks me out a little to come here, but business is business.

Arriving at the bucolic little train station in CT, the only other people usually getting off at my stop are folks coming from The Bronx who likely come to work in a domestic/nanny capacity for the locals. I like to walk the mile to the office from the station and rarely do I see another strolling soul on the tidy tree lined streets. The office is always neat and very quiet. The notices that hang from every bulletin board are centered and straight. The magazines are fanned out perfectly in the reception area. The cubicles and offices are orderly. Even the holiday decorations in the office are tidy--no stray tinsel of odd colored ornaments here. Everything in its place. It is so clean, you could eat off the floors (if that was your wont). I am quiet and respectful when I come here. Today I came to treat our editors, copy editors and art directors to a holiday lunch to acknowledge them for their diligent dedication and year of hard work. That, indeed, was worth the trip.

It is such a contrast to the Manhattan office I work out of. That den of iniquity is a former dot com space and it's rough and messy and always noisy. It's painted in hideous primary colors. There's paper everywhere, the space is tight and the light is unflattering even on a good day. The fax machines and color printers are usually churning with aged distress and someone is always heating up some foul smelling leftovers in our lone worn microwave. Our holiday decorations are haphazard and merry: the menorah on the reception desk has seen better days, but it hasn't stopped us from flanking the doorways and spare corners with ratty, shiny tinsel. And we have mice. Small ones to be sure, but our little nocturnal visitors sometimes leave us a little dropping or two and we have the odd sighting as they dash from cubicle to cubicle. There's always construction afoot on this street in Manhattan so there's often ambient noise from outside. This, combined with the loud staccato chatter of the sales managers on the floor, is the looping muzak of each day.

I'll never be a Fairfield County girl, even if I wanted to be. There's a little too much white trash in me. And I wouldn't change a thing.