Monday, March 27, 2006

Tell K-Fed I won't call him Daddy

It’s Monday. Mondays are sort of a day of reckoning in corporate America. Even though legally “The Man” provides you with 2 days off per week, he still wants a full account of your whereabouts come Monday, when it is time to get back to work. Here is how my Monday mornings usually go down:

Me: “Good Morning Boss Man, Boss Ladies and Various Others in Office.”

Them: “How was your weekend?”

Me: “It was good. How was yours?” (they always ignore my questions. Like they are secretly in the FBI on weekends.)

Them: “Just good?”

Me: “Huh?” (as I am still pretty asleep as I most likely just woke up oh, about 25 minutes before this conversation)

Them: “Your weekend. It was just ‘good’?”

Me: “Oh. No. I mean I guess…it was fine.”

Them: “What did you do?”

Me: (automatically go into crisis mode. I don’t need them to know about my alter ego that comes out after a few cocktails/beers/shots. I don’t need them to know that all the stuff I talked about doing that weekend never happened because I was bed ridden with a hangover on Saturday.) “Oh, not much. Hung out with some friends, walked around the park, ran some errands…(here is where I trail off hoping that’s enough)”

Them: “Some weather Saturday, huh?”

Me: “Yea…”(having no clue what they are referring to as I made sure all blinds were closed because any direct sunlight may have killed me on Saturday. Usually I start to walk away slowly at this point.)

Them: “Well ok then…Thanks.” (They always say “Thanks” even if all I did was stand there.)

There was a lot more I could have told them. I could have told them that I had an inappropriate dream about Kevin Federline on Thursday night (I know, I know, revolting isn’t it?). A dream that in turn ruined my entire weekend. A dream that made me nauseated at my roommates birthday dinner. A dream that I used to induce vomit on Saturday so I would feel better. A dream that warrants no explanation. A dream that will never, EVER, be mentioned again after today. (Pause as I throw up in my mouth a little).

I also could have told them about the lesbian that hit on me Friday night. She was old, unattractive, and grabbed my hand as I exited the ladies room. She kissed my hand. I was flattered. I think she might have said “Thanks” as I walked away.

I could have told them how I rocked a game of darts on Friday night. And I mean rocked. Q and I must have gotten a hold of something magic, because we beat this guy (who said he knew how to play, I think he lied). Well, we sort of won. We never got to finish the game, but all we needed was one more bulls eye. I think I might start dart hustling in my spare time, like those guys who hustle at pool halls. But instead of naming my darts Lucille, I would name mine after The Chipmunks: Alvin, Simon, and Theodore.

I also could have told them about the young man who propositioned me (it was just plain gross) at 7 am Saturday morning as I trekked home from a late night post bar sing along and an acquaintances apartment (for no other reason as to give him and a friend little privacy, and for the fact that I was done drinking). A well-dressed man approached me like he needed help. I thought he needed directions. After what felt like five minutes of him getting up the nerve to ask me his question, it turned out he did want directions. Into my pants. I’ve never said the word “No” louder in my life. He’s lucky. I was very close to swatting him with my purse, but I was too aware that my beer consumption had affected my swing.

So you might be wondering why I keep up all of my vices if come Monday, I hide from them and act like a completely mature adult? Because I actually like my vices. Indulging in them keeps me sane. All adults have vices. Whether it be smoking (which they still don’t know I do here considering we talk about health here a lot), drinking, gambling, working too much, slacking too much, talking to much, not talking enough, gossiping, having sex too much, loving too little, being overly critically, being less than truthful, cheating, stealing, eating in excess, buying unaffordable things, taking credit for other people’s work, having elicit dreams about a famous pop stars less than attractive WT husband, etc. The list could go on forever. Everyone has vices. And mine aren’t hurting anyone but myself. I’ve spent so many years developing them I am actually comforted by my vices from time to time. I embrace them. They make me human. So no one needs to know about them but me (and everyone I choose to tell i.e. you, which is usually plenty of people).

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