I’ve really been phoning it in around here this last week. I have lots to say, just been preoccupied with some custom paintings, that child-raising thing, preparing for tomorrow night’s game night. But most importantly – watching hockey and staying up late, forcing Henry to digest Soulphrodisiac on VH1 Soul while I relive my yo-girl years and act all dramatic and wistful. He loves that.
We were watching the premiere of HBO’s 24/7: Penguins and Capitals series the other night. Clips from the Capitals 7-0 loss to the Rangers from last Sunday night was part of it, and Henry made some surprised comment, like this game was news to him.
“Dude,” I said to him. “I had that game on Sunday night. Where were you? Oh yeah, baking cupcakes.”
He is seriously such a domestic pussy. I hope someone got him a Donna Reed apron and curlers for Christmas.
I should probably check him more often for a vagina.
In work news, I was very angry with Barb yesterday.
Our desks are near the travel department, which for some reason is just there, in the middle of our floor, but not considered a part of us and are not invited to any of our office parties. (Not like I have much room to gloat – by time I get there at 4:00, food is already getting put away and everyone is back to work.) There are only a handful of women who work in the small space, and Barb calls them “Those People.” Anytime something is amiss in the kitchen, she likes to blame it on them.
Mostly, they keep to themselves. Occasionally, I will bump into one, all clad in a headset, when I’m on my way to break things in the kitchen. We will then exchange forced pleasantries.
There is one I just DON’T LIKE. AT ALL. The other day, I reluctantly allowed her onto the elevator with me after my frenetic thumping of the CLOSE DOORS buttons proved futile and was then awarded for my courtesy with the privilege of listening to her talk loudly on her cell for the entire 10 floors.
During the evening, she will slither out of the travel office with her fucking headset clamped against her stupid bitchy hair and proceed to ask me questions that I just flat out don’t know the answers to. Or, she’ll ask things of me, like if I could please let them know if there is ever an evacuation or some devastating email regarding our building, because Those People are not privy to any information tips. So I guess if the building is ever on fire and they’re too stupid to notice, it’s on me.
One time she came over and mumbled something that sounded like, “Do you know about the printer jam?” I assumed she meant did I know the status of when the copy center was going to send someone down to fix their printer, so I said no. Turns out she was actually asking me if I knew how to fix her printer jam, which I do and in fact, one of the processors and I recently won a war against our copier using nothing more than salad tongs, a butter knife and blind ingenuity; now I’m doubly glad I played stupid because bitch, be your own fucking hero.
Anyway, my point is that every time she asks me a question, I always give her the classic Stupefied Erin-look and say, “I don’t know.”
Seriously, she probably thinks I’m the department retard, like I’m on work release or something.
Yesterday, while Barb was still there, this same broad comes over and (to me!) asks, “Do you know the number for the help desk?”
BY GEORGE, I DO! I thought, and frantically ran my finger down the phone list taped to my monitor, until I found the four-digit number I had scribbled in green ink. Just as my lips parted, all a’quiver with the excitement of finally proving that my brain actually does cradle an iota of knowledge, fucking Barb rattled off the numbers behind me.
I waited for the travel lady to thank her and retreat back into their mysterious travel office before spinning around in my seat and shooting Barb a menacing glare. “BARB! I actually knew that answer and you ruined it!”
Barb just laughed. I was appalled. First, she steals my moment. Then, she laughs about it!
“I swear, that whole department probably thinks I’m some goddamn mute or something!” I cried, while Barb continued to laugh her self-righteous, know-it-all laugh. She is evil!
Later that night, the same travel lady shuffled over to my desk, leaned in and whispered, “Hey. Are you busy?”
What a loaded question. I actually wasn’t busy. I was carousing Etsy and listening to the post-hardcore station on LastFM. The air between us was pregnant with anxiety and somersaulting question marks while I considered my options.
Finally, I said, “Yes…sort of?” Because why start now with answering her questions with any sort of conviction?
“Do you know how to add a listing on the Firm’s classified page? I have Steelers tickets—”
“I don’t know,” I answered. I doubt she was very surprised.
Probably on my desk I should plant a Rubik’s Cube and some casually-strewn Mensa literature.