Thursday, January 11, 2007
Insane in the Membrane, Insane in the Brain
One of the reasons I haven’t been writing much lately is that I’ve been wicked busy here at work. (Yes, I resurrected “wicked” from my old Boston days.) But it’s not really a bad thing. In fact, The Wife pointed out (much to my surprise) that I haven’t complained about my job at all. I haven’t even complaining about working late. It’s really rather amazing.
I do have one complaint though. And this isn’t even one of those fake complaints I wrote about a month or so ago. Though I think I did include it then. It’s since gone from a fake complaint to a legitimate “bring a gun to work” complaints.
I work in a cube. It’s not a glorious cube, but by cube standards it isn’t bad. Our cubes are generally arranged in packs of six with three on either side of a central aisle. (I’m in the middle of my six-pack, but I have a printer behind me. So it’s almost like I have a window cube, only without the view. And really, who wants a view of downtown Chicago from the 26th floor? Sigh.)
Anyway, the issue I have is with the person who resides in the six-pack next to us. Let’s call her Cunty McBitchenstein. We share a wall, but it’s one of those “big” cubicle walls, so I don’t actually see her. Instead, I get to hear her. A lot of her. Incessant her.
Cunty likes to talk on the phone. And it’s not just that she talks on the phone, it’s that she does it a lot. And it wouldn’t be so bad if she talked to one person, but she talks to several different people. And she tells the same story over and over and OVER.
When I told The Wife about this, she reminded me of a girl we affectionately called K-Bomb. Katie dated my then-roommate. Katie was also, um, “different.” She said a lot of odd things that you made you just stop what you were doing and look at her, like you don’t understand what just came out of her mouth. Imagine being at a zoo, walking past the monkey cage and getting hit by some feces. You stop. You look at the monkey. You think, “Did you really just hit me with your shit?” Then you think, “Do I get upset at the monkey? Or do I just ignore it.” And that’s how you felt with Katie. Her bombs (thus, the nickname K-Bomb) made you think, “Do I get upset with her or just ignore her.”
That brings us to Thanksgiving of (I think) 2002. I was dating The Wife. We spent the night out at her place in the suburbs because we’d be Thanksgiving-ing (it’s a word) not too far away. Sadly, this caused me to miss one of the funniest moments that ever happened in the apartment. Fortunately, Scott and his girlfriend (now wife), Cathy, were there to document the event.
It was mid-morning and everyone was still in bed after a night of getting sauced. K-Bomb got a call from home (Atlanta). Now, K-Bomb never really had what my mom calls an “inside voice.” And when she got on the phone, she turned her internal volume dial up to 11. So, there was no problem hearing her throughout the tiny apartment. And the conversation that ensued would enter apartment lore.
The first person K-Bomb talked to must have asked her what she had for breakfast. K-Bomb responded that they had “pancakes and some French toast.” Her relative then passed the phone and for some reason, THAT person asked what she had for breakfast. So K-Bomb repeated herself and said, “pancakes and some French toast.”
But now K-Bomb was getting emotional. I don’t know if she missed her family or the pancakes and French toast. But with each person she talked to, she got progressively worse. And so you would hear K-Bomb cry and say how much she missed the people at home. And then you would hear (through tears) “pancakes and some French toast.”
(That always made me wonder what it was like being the relative on the other end. Was it weird hearing K-Bomb cry? Did you run out of things to talk about? Is that why everyone asked about her breakfast? Was that their universal signal for “I’m passing the phone?”)
Anyway, listening to Cunty here at work is much like listening to K-Bomb because she repeats her stories SO much. And that’s why I know that Rob (her husband) just flew down to Memphis to pick up a 1986 BMW that he then drove back and now he’s going to fix it up and sell it and make a profit on it, and I don’t know, I don’t ask questions, because this is what he really wanted to do.
And I also know that they just bought a 1999 BMW and Rob did all his research and it’s a stick-shift, which I didn’t want, but Rob really did because it’s sportier and I don’t really know the difference, but apparently the stick-shifts are harder to find so Rob really had to search to find it and he really likes it, which is all that matters.
And I also know that they’re going to Nashville this weekend for Rob’s dad’s 83rd birthday, and I don’t know that I want to go, but they’re a nice family and I enjoy spending time with them but there’s a lot going on in town that I’d like to be here for, but it’s Rob’s family, so we have to go.
And I also know that her friend is dating someone who’s terrible for her because he doesn’t call her when he comes to town and if he doesn’t have the courtesy to make a phone call, how can he be worth dating, and no you should NOT go out with him if he calls right before he leaves town after he’s been here for a week because you deserve BETTER than him, but hey it’s your life and I don’t want to tell you what to do because I hate to pry.
All day long I hear this. It’s slowly driving me insane. And so a month ago and a few blocks away, when a man came into an office and starting shooting people, I thought, “He must be on the other end of Cunty’s phone calls.”
I do have one complaint though. And this isn’t even one of those fake complaints I wrote about a month or so ago. Though I think I did include it then. It’s since gone from a fake complaint to a legitimate “bring a gun to work” complaints.
I work in a cube. It’s not a glorious cube, but by cube standards it isn’t bad. Our cubes are generally arranged in packs of six with three on either side of a central aisle. (I’m in the middle of my six-pack, but I have a printer behind me. So it’s almost like I have a window cube, only without the view. And really, who wants a view of downtown Chicago from the 26th floor? Sigh.)
Anyway, the issue I have is with the person who resides in the six-pack next to us. Let’s call her Cunty McBitchenstein. We share a wall, but it’s one of those “big” cubicle walls, so I don’t actually see her. Instead, I get to hear her. A lot of her. Incessant her.
Cunty likes to talk on the phone. And it’s not just that she talks on the phone, it’s that she does it a lot. And it wouldn’t be so bad if she talked to one person, but she talks to several different people. And she tells the same story over and over and OVER.
When I told The Wife about this, she reminded me of a girl we affectionately called K-Bomb. Katie dated my then-roommate. Katie was also, um, “different.” She said a lot of odd things that you made you just stop what you were doing and look at her, like you don’t understand what just came out of her mouth. Imagine being at a zoo, walking past the monkey cage and getting hit by some feces. You stop. You look at the monkey. You think, “Did you really just hit me with your shit?” Then you think, “Do I get upset at the monkey? Or do I just ignore it.” And that’s how you felt with Katie. Her bombs (thus, the nickname K-Bomb) made you think, “Do I get upset with her or just ignore her.”
That brings us to Thanksgiving of (I think) 2002. I was dating The Wife. We spent the night out at her place in the suburbs because we’d be Thanksgiving-ing (it’s a word) not too far away. Sadly, this caused me to miss one of the funniest moments that ever happened in the apartment. Fortunately, Scott and his girlfriend (now wife), Cathy, were there to document the event.
It was mid-morning and everyone was still in bed after a night of getting sauced. K-Bomb got a call from home (Atlanta). Now, K-Bomb never really had what my mom calls an “inside voice.” And when she got on the phone, she turned her internal volume dial up to 11. So, there was no problem hearing her throughout the tiny apartment. And the conversation that ensued would enter apartment lore.
The first person K-Bomb talked to must have asked her what she had for breakfast. K-Bomb responded that they had “pancakes and some French toast.” Her relative then passed the phone and for some reason, THAT person asked what she had for breakfast. So K-Bomb repeated herself and said, “pancakes and some French toast.”
But now K-Bomb was getting emotional. I don’t know if she missed her family or the pancakes and French toast. But with each person she talked to, she got progressively worse. And so you would hear K-Bomb cry and say how much she missed the people at home. And then you would hear (through tears) “pancakes and some French toast.”
(That always made me wonder what it was like being the relative on the other end. Was it weird hearing K-Bomb cry? Did you run out of things to talk about? Is that why everyone asked about her breakfast? Was that their universal signal for “I’m passing the phone?”)
Anyway, listening to Cunty here at work is much like listening to K-Bomb because she repeats her stories SO much. And that’s why I know that Rob (her husband) just flew down to Memphis to pick up a 1986 BMW that he then drove back and now he’s going to fix it up and sell it and make a profit on it, and I don’t know, I don’t ask questions, because this is what he really wanted to do.
And I also know that they just bought a 1999 BMW and Rob did all his research and it’s a stick-shift, which I didn’t want, but Rob really did because it’s sportier and I don’t really know the difference, but apparently the stick-shifts are harder to find so Rob really had to search to find it and he really likes it, which is all that matters.
And I also know that they’re going to Nashville this weekend for Rob’s dad’s 83rd birthday, and I don’t know that I want to go, but they’re a nice family and I enjoy spending time with them but there’s a lot going on in town that I’d like to be here for, but it’s Rob’s family, so we have to go.
And I also know that her friend is dating someone who’s terrible for her because he doesn’t call her when he comes to town and if he doesn’t have the courtesy to make a phone call, how can he be worth dating, and no you should NOT go out with him if he calls right before he leaves town after he’s been here for a week because you deserve BETTER than him, but hey it’s your life and I don’t want to tell you what to do because I hate to pry.
All day long I hear this. It’s slowly driving me insane. And so a month ago and a few blocks away, when a man came into an office and starting shooting people, I thought, “He must be on the other end of Cunty’s phone calls.”
