Friday, November 17, 2006

An Open Letter to The Woman I Just Talked To In The Breakroom

Dear Small Woman Wearing a Patchwork Shirt That Sort Of Looks Like It Could’ve Been Stolen From Holly Hobby:

First, I’m not really sure what your name is and your company ID was obscured by the copy of True Stories magazine that you were clutching although I am intrigued by the headline about the woman who overcame fibromyalgia only to later be killed and eaten by former Night Court star Marsha Warfield, so maybe you could leave that on my desk after you’ve finished looking up all of the words you don’t understand.

Anyway, I went to the breakroom to refill my water bottle, sign that bitch from Accounting up for an order of 87 boxes of Girl Scout cookies (only the shitty kind, the shortbread ones that are either in the shape of the Girl Scout logo or a colon polyp) and maybe steal someone’s Diet Coke out of the fridge. OK, maybe steal is too strong a term. I was going to trade them a soda for some carpet cleaner or a Lee Greenwood CD or an IUD. You know, the stuff I keep in my desk drawers.

I had just opened the refrigerator door when I heard you announce, “Well my daughter had her baby.” Surely you weren’t talking to me because I didn’t even know you had a daughter. Until today I didn’t know you had feet. My response was something like, “Hey, do you think anyone’s going to miss this Fresca?”

But the conversation continued:

You: She wasn’t plannin’ on having a baby but she was takin’ medicine for her urinary tract infections and that messed with her birth control and she got pregnant.

Me: Otter Pops? Who brings Otter Pops to the office?

You: The labor was quick though. She was already real dilated by the time she got to the hospital. That baby pretty much just dropped on out.

Me: ---

Me: ---

Me: ---

You: Have a nice weekend.

See, here’s the thing. Until I’ve met someone, I really don’t care to know the details of their sex life, the state of their endocrine system, or the circumference of their vagina. Also, it's rare that you hear the words "baby" and "dropped" in the same sentence unless you're talking about Britney Spears.

So next time, before you decide to share stories about the genitalia of your family members, please give me a warning: a code word, a sign, or just hit me with your car. Really. I would rather spend the weekend picking bits of your "I'd Rather Be At a Clay Aiken Concert" bumper sticker out of my forehead then to ever endure that again.

But I’d still like to read that magazine. Tell your daughter I said congratulations and to stop by the breakroom. I left something in the fridge for her.


1 comment:

Anonymous said...

This is the J-Money I remember and love... I found your blog through your MySpace and now I'm checking here every day. I've added you to my ever-growing list of "Websites That Pollute My Mind While I Should Be Doing Laundry or Applying to Grad Schools." Keep reminding the people of North Carolina that you're better than them, and sooner or later they'll catch on and give you some props. -Nick