Filed under: License Plate of the Day
Exactly how much do I feel like being at work today?
Yup, that sounds about right.
During my tenure at my previous job, the afternoon Fed Ex delivery man developed a crush on me. He’s a black man whose age I would place somewhere in the range of 37-45. He’s at least 10 years older than me but younger than my parents. His race will come into play later, so hold that thought.
My interest in this guy is somewhere in the range of -98 to zero. There is something about him that has always put me off. It might be that he declared his interest in me before we had an actual conversation. I appreciate it any time someone finds me attractive, really I do, but I would strongly prefer that any suitors try to make polite small talk before asking me out to determine if we have anything in common, or that I speak English, or that I’m not mute. One of the first times he delivered to my job he made one of those attempt-to-be-sly-your-boyfriend-is-a-lucky-man comments to see if I have a boyfriend. I didn’t lie, but I should have. From then on, he came on pretty strong. His persistence creeped me out and his frequent compliments started to feel a little lecherous. Luckily, I didn’t have to see him much because we had a shipping/receiving manager whose job it was to accept deliveries and I only did it when he was unavailable, which wasn’t too terribly often.
Fast forward to my new job, which you may recall is in the building next door to my old job, and as you might suspect, the same Fed Ex guy delivers here also, but here, I’m the person who signs for all the packages. Now I have to see this guy on a pretty much daily basis. Imagine my enthusiasm. I try to act busy when he comes, so except for the moment when I sign for the packages and say “thank you” my eyes are glued to my computer screen and my fingers are typing away. If you were thinking he would get the hint from my stand-offish behavior, you’d be like me: hopeful and dead fucking wrong.
So the other day he came in and despite the fact that it doesn’t seem to be properly conveying my disinterest, I stuck to my routine of pretending to have something important to do that precludes conversing with him. But at some point I have to take the thingy to sign from him and give it my John Hancock, and when I did so, he said:
“So what, do I need to get a diamond for you to make this thing we got going here official?”
Let me give you a minute to digest that.
After a few seconds of stunned silence on my part, I reattached my fingers to my keyboard and my eyes to the direction of NOT HIM and said, “Um, I’m not really a diamond kind of girl.” I realize in hindsight that this might not have been the best answer, but I honestly had no idea how to respond. The rest of the conversation went like this:
Fed Ex Guy: You like rubies better?
Me: Actually, I’m not really into jewelry. (Which is true. I almost never wear jewelry.)
FEG: You don’t need to be into jewelry to get married.
(A valid point. But last time I checked you DO need to be at least somewhat into the person you’re proposing to marry.)
Me: I’m not really a marriage type of person either. (That’s pretty much a complete lie. I would LOVE to get married. To the right person, obviously, and I’m becoming painfully aware that the likelihood of that happening is equivalent to about the exact numerical value as my interest in Fed Ex guy, but whatever. A girl can dream.)
FEG: Well there are people in DC fighting to be allowed to get married.
Me: Not only in DC, and by all means I think they should be able to, but that doesn’t mean I have to get married.
FEG: Really? You think they should be allowed to get married? (All shocked-like.)
Time out: Why do people who (barely) know me always assume I’m conservative? I became aware during the recent Presidential election that based on appearances, the general population assumes me to be a conservative Catholic Republican. Is it because I’m white? Because that’s not my fault.
Me: Of course I do. Why should gay people have any less rights than anyone else? What do I care who gets married, as long as it’s two consenting adults?
FEG: But what about the Bible?
Time out: What I most love about this response is how perfectly it illustrates the fact that the marriage debate even existing in the political realm at all is the very definition of a lack of separation between church and state.
Me: I’m an atheist, so I really don’t care what the Bible says.
FEG: I don’t know about a man and a man getting married.
Time out: Ever notice how most men, when displaying varying degrees of homophobia, always talk as if the only type of gay that exists is man-on-man gay? Woman-on-woman gay doesn’t seem to bother straight men so much, does it?
Me: I don’t see why two men should have any less right to get married than you or I.
FEG: Well the object of love is to reproduce, so it’s biology. A man and a man can’t make a baby.
Time out: There’s that man-on-man thing again. A woman and a woman can’t make a baby either last time I checked, but listen Buddy, if you think the object of love (and I think you meant to say “objective” but you’re a moron, so you didn’t) is to reproduce, then diamonds are the least of the obstacles in your path to marrying me.
Me: Well I don’t want to have children, and I generally disagree with the notion that the purpose of love is to reproduce. There’ s a biological imperative, but it’s a choice, and you can love with out reproducing. If that’s a requirement for marriage, then you’re saying that straight people who don’t want to have kids or who can’t have kids shouldn’t be allowed to get married either.
FEG: Well I never thought of it that way….wait, you don’t want to get married OR have kids?
No. Does that mean you’re not interested anymore (fingers crossed)?
Many things about this conversation amazed me, the first being that Fed Ex guy assumed I would share his view on gay marriage. I don’t assume people will share my views on things like that because I accepted a long time ago that 99% of people are stupid. But what really surprises me is when a member of an historically oppressed people is willing to oppress others. There was a time, and not very long ago, when black people didn’t have the same rights under the law as white people. Have you no empathy, Fed Ex man? I’m a woman; I’m an oppressed people. I figured being part of a minority group makes me more understanding of the plight of others. But perhaps my assumption that he would not support the oppression of others because of his race is as bad as people taking one look at my cracker ass and assuming I think Palin is the second coming.
Really though, this whole conversation had no effect on my interest in him because the deal was sealed a couple of weeks earlier when I ended up being stuck on the elevator with him. I was heading straight from work to the Caps game and I had a folded-up jersey in my hand and probably looked like I was in a rush, because he asked me if I was heading somewhere (which is dumb because clearly the elevator is not my final destination, but whatevs). I said I was going to the hockey game and his reply was, “Oh yeah, that’s the Nationals, right?”
Oh Fed Ex Guy. Clearly, ours is a love that can never be.
Filed under: License Plate of the Day
In honor of the Caps 4-2 victory yesterday at home against the Philadelphia Flyers:
For the uninitiated, the Caps wear red jerseys at home games, and the marketing powers that be use the slogans “Red is Caps Hockey” and “Rock the Red.” So fans wear red to the home games, red is sort of the theme…you can smell what I’m cooking here, right? I saw this vehicle on the way to the game right by the Verizon Center where the Caps play and it had Caps stickers on it, so I’m pretty sure Caps-red is the red this vehicle is rocking. And last night the red was definitely rocked.
I dislike children. Let me clarify: by children, I mean all people under the age of 21, particularly if they are close enough to my person for me to see or hear them. I realize that I was a child once too, but I don’t hold that against myself. I didn’t know any better then. Now I do.
Like any person with an IQ above 10, I avoid things I don’t like as much as humanly possible. I don’t dance, so I don’t go to clubs. I don’t like Republicans, so I don’t attend NRA conventions. Likewise, I don’t frequent places where children are likely to be, which is why it really eats my ass when kids pop up in unexpected, inappropriate places, like R rated movies. Or fine dining establishments. Or work.
Yesterday this woman comes into the lobby with two toddlers in tow. I could hear those fuckers screaming before they even got off the elevator. My main problem with children is that they have no sense of common courtesy. This lack of manners includes mastery of indoor voices, knowing that staring is impolite, and respecting personal space. These were toddlers and therefore they can’t be expected to accept full responsibility for appropriate social interaction. I don’t blame them. I don’t dislike them any less for their lack of blame, but I don’t blame them.
The woman accompanying the kids must have been the nanny or something because she asked for a coworker of mine named Lucinda and announced to me that the hellions were Lucinda’s kids, as if I give a rat’s ass who they belong to. I called Lucinda and she didn’t answer (figures), so I sent her an email (marked urgent, and for the record, that is perhaps the most extremely appropriate urgent classification of an email EVER). I asked the nanny if Lucinda was expecting her and she said yes (which means either she lied, or Lucinda is officially on my hit list for not only inviting her children to work but not even being ready for their arrival). The nanny then asked me where Lucinda sits, which is possibly the dumbest question of all time because CLEARLY if I could get these brats out of my line of vision I would have done so yesterday, but Lucinda sits in a badge-access only area on a different floor. I’ll save visitors’ general assumption that it’s okay for them to roam about an office they don’t work in for another time.
The kids were probably in my lobby for 5 minutes but it was the longest, loudest 5 minutes of my life. FUCK those kids were loud, and they were consistently, non-stop loud. The nanny only managed to admonish them for their volume once and they were so loud that employees began to emerge from other areas to find out WTF was going on. I made sure to tell everyone exactly whose kids they were, and one employee responded by saying, “ahh, of course,” which indicates to me that this is not the first time that Lucinda’s kids have been loudly and proudly using our lobby as their afternoon playground. Eventually Lucinda sent up a woman named Sheila to escort the kids and nanny, and Sheila made a real show of cooing over the kids like they were newborn puppies, which they certainly are not, because newborn puppies know how to keep their damn traps shut.
I think Sheila’s oooing and awwwing over the kids irritated me even more than their presence, because people like Sheila are the reason people like Lucinda continue to think it’s okay to parade your kids around your place of business. People like Sheila condone that behavior by reinforcing the notion that your coworkers want nothing more than to babysit your kids and tell you afterward what beautiful geniuses they are.
I could go on and on about places you shouldn’t bring your children and why, but instead let me broadcast a little public service announcement for all you parents out there:
NOBODY BUT YOU CARES ABOUT YOUR KIDS. NOBODY. ESPECIALLY NOT YOUR COWORKERS.
Filed under: License Plate of the Day
77 years ago today, Sylvia Plath was born. To commemorate, the license plate of the day:
Bittersweet because, you know, she was talented and successful but she still stuck her head in an oven. It’s kind of a tenuous connection, I know. So how about this? Today is the 300th day of the year, which is sweet because wow, you’ve just about survived another year, but it’s bitter because holy shit, you’re a year older and Father Time’s death grip is wrapping around you tighter and tighter with each day that passes.
Whichever examples works better for you. Take your pick.
Filed under: Work Bitching
You know what I don’t understand? People who don’t pick up their gd packages. When someone at my job receives a package, I sign for it and then I email said person to let him or her know that a package is awaiting at the front desk. Some people have to be reminded 2 or 3 times about their package before they bother to pick that shit up. I don’t know about you, but when I get a package I am all over that shit like white on rice. I start tracking my package as soon as tracking becomes available. I know when my package has been delivered right down to the minute and second because receiving a package is like a little mini bite-sized sampling of Christmas moring. Everyone likes getting packages. Bills generally don’t come in packages, so whatever these people are getting, it’s better than a bill. So where is the excitement? Or the general courtesy of not cluttering up my space with shit that belongs to you?
Filed under: License Plate of the Day
In honor of the Yankees losing Game 5 of the ALCS last night:
I could not give a flying fuck who wins what in professional baseball, because I figured out many years ago that baseball is the most boring sport of all time except golf, and that’s only if you count golf as a sport. Both involve extensive standing around broken up by periodic hitting of a ball with a long object. Both also require the players to wear embarrassing clothing. But I officially hate the Yankees now because I found out that my father has a deep, burning, surprisingly intense hatred of them, and I find it kind of amusing. I’ll spare you the background of why he hates them, but my favorite part of the conversation was when my father referred to a time period in which the Yankees apparently sucked for awhile. I said, “you must have enjoyed that,” and my dad’s response was, “it was great.” And that was the end of the discussion. My father is nothing if not succinct.