December 10, 2001
a little bit of everything
The team was sitting around the lab eating lunch, the tail end of a jaunt to Quizno's for sandwiches. It's impossible to get real food in the cafeteria anymore; that appears to have been the first casualty of our imminent company closure. The only things available to eat these days are a sandwich bar and a salad bar, both stocked by catering employees who have long since lost their enthusiasm for the job.
The conversation turned 'round to scarves in the way that it usually changes subject; namely, the Firecracker or I said something completely random and carried whatever thought we had to its ridiculous, illogical end. In the highway of discourse, the Firecracker and I are hairpin turns.
"I HAVE DEAD FOX AT HOME FROM GREAT WALL," she announced, in the middle of a conversation about Reality TV.
We all turned our gazes to stare at her. "What?"
"Why do you have a dead fox?" asked Indian Mom, innocently.
"MY HUSBAND GET FOR ME. I WEAR ON NECK. I REMEMBER BECAUSE OF GREAT WALL."
"You wear a dead fox on your neck?" Indian Mom was baffled. This was, to her, some hitherto unknown facet of Chinese culture. "Isn't it heavy? You wear the entire fox?"
"That's gross," I offered, politically correct animal lover that I am. "Poor fox."
"I think it's just the skin," the Manager told Indian Mom, helpfully. "And the fur."
"NO, IS HEAD ALSO, ALL INSIDE GONE."
"Is it flat?" asked the Manager.
The Firecracker frowned. "NO, IS ROUND. STOMACH ALL STITCHED TOGETHER. I BRING FOR YOU TOMORROW, YOU CAN SEE."
"Please don't," we all chimed in unison.
"Why the hell would you want a dead fox?" I asked, baffled.
The Firecracker made one of those explosive sounds midway between disgust at my obtuseness and amusement at my idiocy. "NO, MY HUSBAND GET FOR ME AS CHRISTMAS PRESENT. I ASK HIM FOR SCARF."
"We have absolutely got to have a talk to that husband of yours," I said, thoughtfully, while Indian Woman (the Second) said with some disbelief, "--And your husband gave you a dead fox?"
"IT IS VERY EXPENSIVE PRESENT," the Firecracker said, defensively.
I pointed out, "Yes, but there's a difference between 'expensive' and 'tasteful'."
The Firecracker blinked. "NO, YOU DON'T TASTE IT, IT'S A SCARF."
My resume is coming along; one page is complete, and even if it isn't the most well-designed thing in the world, well, at least it's something. I've gotten offers of help from some of you -- thank you, all; I'll take you all up on those offers -- and in theory, sometime before I get laid off it should be in a good enough state that I'll be able to send it out to uninterested employers.
I'm sort of looking forward to unemployment, actually. Really, I am.
Honest.
"You're a sweetie," the Guy said.
"You're a storm drain," I said sleepily back.
There was a moment of blank silence.
"What?"
"Or do I mean storm dyke?" I wondered. "Storm drain, storm dyke, same difference."
"They're very different things," he said, patiently. "A dyke is a female homosexual."
"Storm dyke," I articulated. "It's a hill or a wall to hold back flood waters."
The Guy brushed that aside, apparently thinking that inconsequential. "Why did you call me a storm drain? Is that a compliment? I don't know how to feel about that."
I gave it a little thought. "It's a compliment," I decided. "It's a subtle compliment."
"Uh huh," he said, sounding unconvinced.
"It is," I insisted. "It's just, you know, so subtle and above you that you don't quite understand it."
He started to laugh. "So subtle that it doesn't make any sense at all, you mean."
"I'm like intellectual tiramisu," I corrected, primly. "I'm many layers above you."
"More like trifle," said the Brit.
I sniffed suspiciously. "What's trifle?"
He was grinning. "It's like jello, with things floating in it."
"Tiramisu," I said, firmly.
"You're the floating things."
The Guy stuck his finger in my ear and wiggled it around. He does this from time to time; I've come to the conclusion that this must be some sort of male sign of affection. I notice that young boys do this to their siblings, though usually they lick their fingers first. The Guy was kind enough to skip the saliva portion of the bonding ritual.*
As usual, I submitted in meek, womanly silence while he poked about my ear canal.
"I don't understand why you never have any ear wax," he said after removing his finger and inspecting it. "Do you just not grow any?"
"It's a female thing," I said, kindly. "It's not to be understood."
Boyfriends are weird things. Somebody please send me a manual.
* Footnote:
"No, I don't," the Guy objected, upon reading the entry. "I do it to you because you do it to me. You keep sticking your finger in my ear, and I don't know why, because it's usually yucky."
"I'll put in a disclaimer," I said.
I'm a good girlfriend.