Never Trust a Man with Two First Names

I have four things on my "To-Do List" today. It's funny. I make these sorts of lists compulsively. I always seem to have things to do, and when I don't have a lot to do, I either:

A. Make up things or
B. Write down things I have already done, and then cross them off.

I feel accomplished when I do said things. But even I know, at least a little in the back of my mind, that it's all a lie. [Pause for a deep moment.]

OK, so one of the things on my list today is to write a funny story/blurb on my blog. Hence, this moment, right now.

But the thing is, nothing funny has happened today, and though I like to make up stories, they are usually of the depressing sort, i.e. all throughout college I took creative writing and fiction courses. Each story that received the most praises were

1. A story about two brothers living in a small town, one still with their dying mother. The mom was dying of cancer, and I went into all the gritty details about what happens when mom's die of cancer, mostly just the vomiting and clean up. I'm pretty sure I had read the first few pages of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius and felt compelled, and or, watched Susan Sarandon's performance as a dying cancer patient in Step Mom. [Another deep moment. I might have to make these more compact to send them to deep songwriter Brian McKnight.]

2. Another of these sad stories was about this really selfish doctor who goes to Cambodia on a research grant and then learns all about child sex trafficking and the like. He gets really distraught and heartbroken, and I think I had him attempt suicide.

I know, right? What's my deal? Anyway, these stories landed some compliments from the class, and one of my professors suggested I apply for the MFA program in fiction writing at the Iowa Writer's Workshop. I like to drop that in casual conversation sometimes.

So, back to the notion that nothing funny has happened. Perhaps it's because I am currently at oh-so-exciting L.Marshall, Inc. working away. Actually, today has been much busier than usual. I did payroll, organized the mail and wrote a few bid proposals. Hark. Something funny has just happened.

I work in an office of two. Well, there are some other people downstairs and then there are all the roofers out on the jobs. The office office is comprised of usually Judy and Terry, whom I might have mentioned in previous posts. Terry is a neurotic chain smoker who is in charge of all the company's finances. He wears glasses straight out of the late '70s, collared shirts from painting and roofing conventions, and gym shoes he is very proud of. They only cost him $8 each. Who doesn't like a good deal? But the best part is his mullet-styled curly hair in the back with a nice comb over. And now, pair that with a Tom Selleck mustache. You can usually find him behind his desk in the back of the office mumbling "Fuck" over and over again. I don't know why. He gets frustrated easily.

Some of our interactions are funny, others, he's kind of a jackass. Like yesterday, I told him I had to leave a little early to go to my other job (one which I had already gotten hours for before agreeing to help my padre out). And like a true jackass he goes, "Gees, that says a lot about you. I mean, you leave early and you took a long lunch." Then he does a deep sigh and says, "Yeah, it really says a lot about you." The lunch was due to Harry and Celeste, grandparents extraordinaire wanting to chat, eat and having me pick up prescriptions for them. Couldn't be helped. They're in their 80s and really are starting to fall apart each time I see them, though they still have their wits about 'em. Usually I only take 30 minutes, but yesterday I took an hour and five. An hour is typically allotted. I decided not to make a stink of it, and didn't mention casually that he takes about five 15 minute smoke breaks per day, plus a trip to Starbucks, adding up to well over that allotted 60 minutes. But, I know I could have.

Anyway, other interactions with Mr. Terry Bobbe (never trust a man with two first names) are more humorous, because really, he isn't a bad guy, just kind of a pain. So, today, I think because I made him feel bad once I let him know why I took a little longer lunch than usual, he offers to get me a coffee from Starbucks. And all I could think for a good half hour was why I didn't say, "No, but thanks a latte!"

When he gets back, he starts to rifle through the mail I had put on his desk. He opens one from Chris Industry's, one of our suppliers, and starts laughing that sort of Flem rattling one, thanks to nearly forty years of smoking. Standing up, "Brigid, oh this is good. This is good. Every once in a while Chris does something like this." Reading from the sheet: "Chris Industry's Bill for St. Mary's of 'dah' Lake." Laughing hysterically, coughing, cough, an "Oh, gees!" thrown in there for effect. "Get it? It's for St. Mary's of 'the' Lake." I get it. Gangster-speak and/or an Indian accent. "Yeah, that's funny," I answer. He sits down, looks at it for a second, then files it, still chuckling.