About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Yet another reason why big-handed men are show stoppers
I saw a doctor in Mulletville today about my busted knee. Turns out I’ve got Chondromalacia Patellae. If you’ve never heard of that before, it means that my knee mistakenly believes it’s attached to an 85-year-old body and has decided to eat itself. Luckily I don’t have the flatulence problem of an octogenarian, but I’m sure my hiney will be the next thing to go. I can just sense it.
News of my condition put me in a foul mood for the rest of the day. More foul than usual. That was unfortunate because I had a meeting scheduled—for the newly formed Mirth and Recreation Committee.
Yes, that’s right: Mirth and Recreation Committee.
Because working 35-80 hours a week isn’t enough. Sitting in a veritable petri dish of germs and dysfunctional personalities isn’t enough. Now, instead of setting us free at the end of the day, my company has devised another committee whose intent is to entrap us—under the guise of merriment.
Hah! If I wanted to channel recreation through my workplace I’d get smashed, strip off my clothes and spray paint enormous penises on the building.
The head of the Mirth and Recreation Committee (who henceforth shall be known as The Head) had other things in mind, namely an after hours cookie and punch get-together with a roaming magician.
Sound like fun? No! A magician can pull a Ferrari out of his ass; it still doesn’t make up for the fact that I’m not home with my child. I just want to go home!
For once, I got some support when I said as much. It was decreed that the get-together would be held during lunch and that the magician would do a demo beforehand so the committee could determine whether or not he’s entertaining or annoying. Oh, how I wish there were a trap door.
Everything was going smoothly until The Head said, “How will everyone know when the get-together is over?”
There were harrumphs, nervous coughs, talk of the get-together last spring that lingered and lingered.
Someone raised her hand. “What if we signify that it’s over by having people clap?”
Yes! Yes! The Head loved that. What a brilliant idea! Why market the event with a run-time of noon to one when instead you could shoo everyone out with ambiguous thunderous applause?
Then, from The Head: “Who shall start the clapping?”
Everyone shrugged their shoulders. Who indeed?
A smile spread across The Head’s face. “Hold your hands up. Whoever has the largest hands shall begin the clapping.”
As I raised my hands high in the air for inspection, I fought the urge to simultaneously bang my head on the table. Right now, it’s the only body part that’s working. And even that is questionable.
(If you're having a nah-uh moment, let me remind you of this and this.)