Week Two at _______ _____:
When I came here for my interview I had an interaction with a dude who's totally hot. It wasn't until I was sitting at his desk with him last Monday that I noticed he kind of looks like Dan. Fair enough. Bad timing for my BCD (boy crazy disorder) because I've been like a fucking cat in heat over here. For the first few days, I couldn't get sentences out right, for example:
Jen wants to say, "When I see 6.0 in the CC_Cnt_CN.... field, should that arise suspicion on my part and constitute for a more indepth review?"
Jen says, "When I see 6 in that one column, oh that one with the CC underscore CN thingie, is that bad?"
Wow. What a fucking idiot.
The floor I work on is seperated by a hall of elevators. I notice on Day Two that there's a helmet perched atop some of the cubicles on the opposite side of my floor. Kirsten and I discussed the helmet, it's potential uses and current purposes, and that we may need to steal for Alex since he's banging his head against the wall because he's so fucking bored. Now I'm thinking Jen, the Special Kid, should be donning the helmet to protect herself from concussing as she falls all over herself for some dude who drives an Audi, wears aviators, and is speculated to have tattoos.
So I've been striving, like really fucking striving, toward not finding him attractive. I have to go to that extreme because if I find him even remotely attractive, I fear I may dry hump his arm as he's helping me figure out why someone is masking their IP address. I've been doing okay, better than most times in the past when I've tried to control my BCD, but it's gradual.
Before I continue on with Mr. Hot-Who's-Kind-Of-A-Dick-But-I-Only-Find-Him-Hotter-Because-He-Is I shall discuss the events that occurred on Wednesday afternoon:
So two days ago I find some really odd activity on two different reports. The first interaction is fine: I send him the information and he says he'll look into it (I instant message him now instead of actually approaching his desk - a pathetic yet effective attempt to deter myself from drooling like Kirsten's bloodhound). Cool. For the next issue, I send him an IM only this time he comes to my desk to help me fix the SQL query. Perfect. When I get back from lunch I find that the query didn't work so I tell him.
- I should note that I have been trying ridiculoulsy hard not to say "sorry" or "I'm retarded" because I am supposed to be a supervisor and if he were butt-ass ugly I probably wouldn't think twice about asking him questions. -
So I'm pretty blunt with him and say something to the effect of: "it didn't work" and respond with "nope" and "k" in order to make myself appear as normal as possible. He returns to my desk and then calls another person over, a guy who's name I only know because ____ has mentioned it to me, and makes sure that his understanding of the field is correct. This is where everything goes awry. Not horribly awry, but awry nonetheless.
One of them, and I honestly prefer not to think about who it was, farted in my cubicle.
FARTED. In. My. CUBICLE.
It's not like this didn't happen at MoneyGram - it did - and it was just as repulsive. The problem with this Deuce-Dust is that it happened to be in MY cube while Mr. Hot-Who's-Kind-Of-A-Dick-But-I-Only-Find-Him-Hotter-Because-He-Is was in it! Let me break it down for you:
If it was him who squeezed one out, that's fine, disgusting yes, and makes me re-evaluate if I should even consider this guy as someone I'd like to bump uglies with, but I can live with that.
If it was NOT him, then here he is, thinking I'm socially awkward, mildly retarded, AND that I either:
a.) have no control over my bowels OR
b.) that I have no respect for the olfactory system
Regardless he thinks I'm gross. I have become that kid you don't want to sit next to in class because I stink and should have an aura about me like that of Pig Pen on Charlie Brown - something that should serve as a visual warning of the offensive stench that is about to meet your nose.
As if things could not possibly worsen regarding ______'s perception of me, this morning, in the elevator, I asked him if it was okay that I was showing the bottom part of my tattoo. Kirsten got this look on her face like she was about to laugh. She told me later that the look on his face was priceless. He looked at me, apparently, like I had just asked him if Christmas was in June.
Just to summarize:
I can't speak.
I stink.
I'm fucking stupid.
Oh yeah, and, in my pathetic little attempts to get him to like me, I've made some seriously dumb jokes. So yeah, add that to the growing list of Things That Make Jen Unattractive.
I picture myself, out in a field of rye; the golden grains that look like catapillars walking on stilts, wave in the wind, soft and gentle, poetically unobtrusive. Here I am, not with a catcher's mit, not surrounded by children who are about to fall off the ledge like Salinger so perfectly described, but I am standing there, shovel in hand, busily digging myself deeper and deeper into a filthy pit of all that is unappealing.
Kirsten and I have decided that when my contract expires I should tell him I think he's hot. I wish I could tell him now, so that maybe I had a fighting chance of preserving the few shreds of my pride that still linger; to try to save myself from continued and consistent embarassment but alas, it is not possible.
All I can do is continue to avoid looking at him. That and opening my mouth.
