So, I was working on Tueday. This work thing? In case you're slow on the uptake, I'm not in classes this semester. Thanks to Northeastern's lovely little co-op program, I effectively have the semester off so that I can complete a full-time six month working experience in an environment that's related to my aspirations for the future. This little equation has landed me an office job in the law offices of Rich May. AS library clerk, I have a plethora of assigned duties, which include but are not limited to taking care of invoices for my little land of books, buying lunches for the firm's top three head honchos, and taking care of the mail and depositing checks at a local bank. The latter of which is what's pertinent to Tuesday, a day which most of you might have forgotten that I mentioned about six sentences ago at the beginning of this little paragraph of joy. Anyway, it was Tuesday.
I'd just posted the mail and tossed it into the big, blue box marked "STAMPED MAIL ONLY" (And now I feel the need to mention that few, if any of the pieces I mailed were actually stamped. They were metered by the little post machine we have in the office. Oh, to be a rebel.) and I was now well on my way to the bank. As soon as I entered, I felt my teeth grit with apprehension. You see, one of my least favorite fellow customers was there, and he was laying in wait for me. You see, he was determined to uphold a conversation with me, regardless of the silent, "No-I-really-don't-want-to-talk-to-anyon
"Whatcha listening to today?" Came this young (and apparently 'hip'), bald, thirty-something's familiarly obnoxious voice. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to ignore him, to stay in my little music-filled bubble of temporary happiness and continue on with my life... however, I guess I'm just too nice. "Last Week. They're a local band." Well, where I come from, anyway. Actually, I didn't even want to be listening to Last Week, so at first I regarded his question as a favor and reminder, my finger slipping to the 'fast-forward' button. Ah, Steriogram. Much better. But no, Mr. Steven wasn't just about to be done. No, no siree. Today, this man was on a mission.
As he continued to make what could be considered a one-sided conversation by my short, mostly one word answers, he supplied the the occasional intelligent/respectable nugget, one of which being that he remembered who I'd been listening to the first time we'd spoken a few weeks prior, the Distillers. (Well, okay, so that toally didn't count because he called them the 'Defribulators'.) God, what a moron. He asked me if I frequented the internet often, which made me arch an eyebrow and deny that I had the time for such idleness. Well, that's sort of half true. Is it funny that he thought the reason why I don't go online often was because I met someone unsavory from 'teh interwebs'? Please. I don't meet people from online to cumshuck. That's the kinda shit that gets you in trouble. An-y-way.
Avoiding eye contact, I still tried to keep a pleasantly aloof aura about me. I mean, I definitely wasn't interested, but I didn't want him to walk away thinking I was a complete and utter bitch afterwards. Sigh. Even as we were depositiong our company's earnings into their accounts, he continued to chat with me, but as I made a dash for the door, he asked me if I could wait. When a suitable lie about my need to escape to the outside world failed me, I shrugged my shoulders and he followed me outside, walking to the corner with me, only to corner ME there by asking for my cell phone number. Now, being that I was too smart to actually give him my digits and too
"...5874." I boldly finished, momentarily feeling proud of myself for the moment of pure genius... but like I said, it was only a moment, a nanosecond at most, because that's when I realized that crap.
I'd just given him my mom's cell number. djkangjagnkjag THIS IS WHY NUMBERS ON FAMILY PLANS IN NUMERICAL SUCCESSION ARE A BAD IDEA. DAMN YOU, T-MOBILE. MY GUTLESSNESS IS ALL YOUR FAULT.
Of course, I called my mom the morning after to let her know all about it. "If some strange guy named Steven calls asking for me, it's not my favorite cousin. Please don't give him my number." :[ Funnily enough, my mother understood. "You know, when I used to go out with your Aunt Laura and Mary when we were young, I was that girl. I was the bitch in Designing Women. I'd tell them to go away, that I wasn't interested... but I don't remember how I did it." Afterwards, my mother started to scheme with me on how she could handle this situation if he actually called. "I could say that I know you, but that you have a boyfriend. 'Yeah, I know Jessica, but she has a boyfriend, so I don't know why she'd give you her nu--' Oh, wait, then it'll sound like you want to break up with him. Nevermind. I'll call you if I get creative."
Gee wiz, I love my mom. And pay day.