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, November 10, 2010
Weiners that plump when you cook them should be a welcome addition to any salad bar
To say that the pickings from the sexual salad bar at Mulletville Corp are withered and oddly shaped is a gross understatement. There are 50 women to every man; the ten men who work here? I’d rather switch teams than nuzzle their noodles.
Yet no matter what my female co-workers and I begin talking about at lunch, the conversation always wanders back to “Would you rather boink Mr. X or Mr. Y?”—even though the answer every time is an emphatic “neither.” Even though we circle around the same 10 men over and over like some horrible and twisted version of Groundhog Day.
We talk about Cadaver Hands. I can’t imagine anything less appealing than watching a dry, purple hand wander up my inner thigh.
Sir-Hump-a-Lot (no relation to Nurse-Lump-a-Lot). Granted, he knows his way around the bedroom, but someone who misses work to have a threesome is probably going to be poking you at 3 a.m., 4 a.m. and 5 a.m., pestering you for sex. Sleep is too precious a commodity.
Jim from purchasing. If you have tactical maneuvers to thwart someone’s "lazy eye" glances, you vomit a little when your co-workers ask, “But if you and he were the last people on Earth, would you?”
Mr. Doll. Enough said.
Mr. Handsome. His teeth sparkle as he walks down the hallway. His blond hair is perfectly coiffed. He successfully wears shades of purple. He doesn’t have visible pores. He seems perfectly doable...until you get a little closer and realize there’s something askew about him. His pants aren’t quite long enough. His shoes have rubber soles. He doesn’t appear to sweat. If you let yourself imagine an encounter with him you envision him stopping mid-thrust to hairspray his hair back into place. Or to floss/flick lint from your backside/lay out his clothes for tomorrow/what-have-you.
Would I choose him over Cadaver Hands? Most certainly, but we have money on it that Mr. Handsome is hiding a secret, like a third testicle.
The remaining men at Mulletville Corp can be summed up with “I’d rather [insert scenario in which you die] than have sex with him.” They’re an unattractive assortment of scraggly beards, canes with snake motifs, saggy asses and bad facial ticks.
We have been in desperate need of new lunchtime material for years.
Then, on Monday, like a gift from the Heavens, Mulletville Headquarters in Assachusetts sent us Mr. Tightbody. Suffice it to say, he lives up to his name and then some. Well-fitted suits hug his rippling torso. His hungry eyes sear into my flesh. His man parts heave and his loins send throbbing shockwaves up and down the—
—Oops, did I mention I’ve been moonlighting as a romance novelist?
The point is, he’s hot and I thought this meant we could finally move on from the “Would you rather...” nonsense. But no. After being surrounded by rusty Pintos of men for so long, no one knows what to do with this Corvette of a man except to verbally vomit nonsense every time his name comes up.
Women have literally turned to Jell-O.
The situation has made me realize just how estranged we’ve become from normal, attractive men and how HR should have eased us into Mr. Tightbody. Like, maybe his bottom half could have started on Monday as a way of introduction. Then an arm. A shoulder.
Or maybe there should have been a gradual upgrade to Mr. Tightbody. Let us get used to a moderately attractive new male hire before you bring in the firecracker. You don’t just throw a frog into boiling water for Pete’s sake.
I should so be in charge of the world. Geesh.