Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Laser Beams

Because I know everyone's as concerned about Phil (my iPod)'s well-being as I am, I would like to say that I am cautiously optimistic about his prognosis. He's not entirely back to his old self, and perhaps he never will be, but who am I to discriminate against the differently abled? I'm as proud to know him as I ever was, even if he stutters a little and needs to take a break in the middle of every third song.

Thank god Phil was around today. I don't understand how I'm expected to keep a clean criminal record when I work with people like the Evil Editor. E.E. Dumbings is the editor whose bizarre phone conversations I've occasionally transcribed for your enjoyment, but more importantly for corroboration of my mental health. Between me and him, I occasionally wonder if I'm the crazy one; he's a terrible person, and a total sexist, and he is incapable of speaking in what my kindergarten teacher called "our inside voice," yet somehow he's everyone's buddy. This makes me question my faculties of perception. After taking Psych 100, I'm always a little concerned that I have one of those cognitive aphasias, whereby your wife looks like a hat. Or your co-worker looks like a total fucking fuckhead.

I was talking to my boss this morning when the Evil Editor interrupted to fling a nectarine around my cubicle. He informed us that this was how he used to practice his curveball when he was in grade school. Then, in perfect "guy from Northern Westchester" fashion, he yet again struck up the only conversation he is capable of having with me. I'm positive he doesn't listen to my answers because it allows him to have that same conversation again the next time we are faced with an awkward silence. Whatever the reason, no matter what I say, he always asks: "So, are you gonna wear a glove over that tattoo the next time you see your mom?"

E.E. is like a toddler who thinks he's hiding by covering his eyes; just because he can't see you, you stop existing. Because he noticed my tattoo a week ago, I've only had it for a week. Since then, he's assumed on virtually a daily basis that:

1. My mother has not seen this tattoo.
2. I intend to hide it from her.
3. She will be angry when she finds out I have it.
4. I don't think about jamming a letter opener up his left nostril and skewering his brain like a cocktail weiner when he speaks to me.

No matter how many times I explain that, indeed, my mother has seen the tattoo on my hand and doesn't love me any less for its existence, he refuses to listen to me. Again today he asked me what my mother would do when she saw the star. My boss and I said that she's definitely seen it.

"Wait, do you live with your mother...?" he asked.
"Yes," I responded.
"OH, COME ON! You LIVE with your MOTHER!!" he sneered.
"Yes," I responded.
"Oy," he muttered, walking away. I could see his fucking stupid nectarine bouncing up and down over the next row of cubicles as he left.

(Along a perfectly vertical trajectory, so he can take his shitty curveball and shove it up his ass.)

"Do you wanna give her a raise?" my boss yelled to his back. I appreciated the gesture, but I already felt like he'd pressed on a black and blue. There's nothing lousier than someone giving you shit for something you already give yourself shit for, especially when that someone is more than twice your age, and makes more than three times your salary, and, also, tucks his turtlenecks into his khakis.

So Phil and I went to the bathroom, where I hide out. In the bathroom on the other side of my office building, near the working photocopier and the Psychology department, there's a handicapped stall with a window in it that looks down on another building. When I'm particularly bored or pissed off I sneak to that bathroom to sit on the window ledge and watch the building across the way, because if I sit in the right place I can see directly down into some kind of wood shop. I haven't been able to figure out what they're making, but watching a big goggle-faced guy jigsaw a giant plank of plywood is infinitely better than filing permissions for an editor who interrupts me to rag on my socioeconomic status.

Phil and I are back at my desk now and, like the total trooper he is, he's played the whole album I'm listening to twice through without so much as a skip. He's drowning out the Evil Editor's phone conversation, which is great because all I was able to catch before I ran back to the embrace of Phil's skinny white arms was the phrase "...I'm telling you, she's just a big bitch."

I know I'm supposed to update about the rest of my weekend but I didn't send myself the pictures yet, so you can all go to hell. Also, I went to see the Hot Dad's band and I'm still trying to think of a way to describe the experience. Specifically, I'm looking for an adjective that combines "fun" with "what it feels like to have burning laser beams shooting into your eyes from someone else's eyes."

Until later, occupy yourself listening to Brad Walsh's latest (available) song,
What You Know, What You Don't (The R&B Mix). It's real good.


Anonymous brad said...

throw a trangerine at him.

2:48 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

I wanna throw a fist at him.

2:56 PM  
Anonymous insane said...

is a trangerine an orange that felt from the beginning that it was really a tangerine trapped inside of an orange?

3:14 PM  
Anonymous Rebecca said...

Reading about your work days actually makes me believe that my last 2 jobs were not as bad as I perceived them to be at the time.

But then I remember that my jobs were jobs that I supposedly *really* wanted to be doing, and that's part of what made them so horrible. So maybe it's a tie.

Hugs for Kathy!

3:52 PM  
Anonymous brad said...


3:58 PM  
Anonymous Bubba said...


9:10 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I just read that Apple is giving $50 rebates for iPod batteries. Maybe you just need to switch it out. (of course, you being master of the obvious, may have already considered this option. if so, please forgive.)

2:27 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

I'm pretty sure it's not the battery. It charges quickly and holds a charge and everything for at least ten hours of continuous play; it's more just that it freezes in the middle of songs or while it's updating. Either way, I think it's gone from being "broken" to being "tempermental," which is something I can live with.

2:37 PM  

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