Work life has been a little hectic. We’ve gotten a new database, which basically means that we have to take every single piece of information we have and convert it in another format. This also means that a man from the new East Coast database company has spent the past 8 consecutive days training us. I’m territorial to begin with, and our offices are tiny. So I don’t exactly welcome some moustached man in golf polos with various communication devices attached to his belt into my 9-5 world. Worse, Golf polo began antagonizing me on Day 1.
Okay, that’s not fair.
But by Day 2, it was on.
He started on Tuesday. On Wednesday, I walked into work and was presented with the following:
(Literally, in flawless Rev. Lovejoy voice) “There she is. It’s about time!”
Oh god. First of all, when we say we start at 9am, that means I aim to park by 9:05. On average, I walk in at 9:15. I fully understand that in some work environments, this is frowned upon. In my work environment, where I work a good 60 hours a week anyway, not to mention many a Saturday and Sunday, if I roll in at 9:15, I’m having a good day. I get my shit done, pal. You worry about you, I’ll worry about me.
But that was the tip of the offensive iceberg.
“I’ve got to say, Beth. I like today’s outfit much better than yesterday’s. The green shoes with the black dress wasn’t doing it for me.”
I have three responses to this:
1. The last thing I want is to do “it” for you.
2. You’re wearing a patterned golf polo with communication devices attached to your belt. The last time I checked, Palo Alto circa 1997 was about 60 miles south.
3. In my unnecessary defense, I was wearing a black skirt, black sweater and white shirt, with chunky green jewelry, a green bag, and quite frankly, fucking adorable green shoes, all of which corresponded perfectly.
Later on in the day, Golf polo made a sports reference that, needless to say, went over my head.
“You know, you’ve got to stay away from the sports references with me. I’ll never have any idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well, what references should I use?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Ben pipes up. “Fashion.”
“That’s true. I’ll admit it. I was a fashion design major.”
Golf polo couldn’t find this funnier. He found it so funny, in fact, he was laughing too hard to hear me point out that his straight, frat boy pal Ben was a goddamn art history major. For the past week, I’ve suffered through the most appalling and off-mark fashion parallels ever. I believe the word chenille was involved.
Ben and I escaped to lunch everyday, and I vented the entire time.
“Golf polo is driving me fucking nuts.”
“That always happens with you. Seriously. People always feel the need to tease you. You inspire wacky banter.”
“Well, screw that. This is my job, Ben. Ugh, have you heard him? Did I tell you he hated my outfit? And said so????”
“Yeah. You told me. You know, he gives the women a hard time, but never me.”
“Oh no. Don’t give me another reason to despise him.”
“I’m just saying.”
So basically, just to re-cap, Golf polo is a sexist, judgmental, moustached time cruncher with bad taste. Oh, and also, he described the walnuts we have lying around as “meaty.” Ga-ross. So it makes it all the more upsetting that I’m the one that has to acquire his lunch. This involves me standing the middle of Whole Foods reading off the sandwich/burrito/soup/salad menu like a goddamn asshole, when I think everyone would be a lot happier if I just swung by 7/11 and got Golf polo the heat-lamped chimichanga we all know he really wants.
The thing is, there are moments when I love Golf polo. He sings out loud all day long. You’ve gotta respect that. I’m sure one of my co-workers is writing a blog about how much they hate his constant Christmas caroling, but truth be told, I like it. While I was at first wildly offended by the unsolicited back massages, they’re pretty good. And lord knows I could use a serious shiatsu. Finally, after lots of highly unwarranted teasing about the “fashionista” trying to comprehend code, he has finally acknowledged what I have known all along. I’m good at this shit.
It’s been a long 8 days. And I’m both relieved and saddened that my time with Golf polo has come to and end. At one point, he went around the offices taking photos of us, so when we inevitably call the tech emergency help line, a photo of us would pop up on the techie’s computer so they’d have some idea who they were talking too. Not a lot of moustached guys with communication devices attached to their belt would let me take a wacky, “I’m looking confused and angry at my computer” photo. But Golf shirt did.
And Golf shirt liked it…