Women's Intuition
Most women have a sixth sense so uncannily accurate, it is referred to as 'Women's Intuition.'I do not have it. I am crushed.
The bane of men for years, 'Women's Intuition' spans all aspects of life. Examples of 'Women's Intuition' range from finding a priceless antique at a yard sale, through realizing, yes, he just really isn't as thrilled about your purchase of the Notebook DVD as he says he is.
Women prefer to call 'Women's Intuition' by another phrase, 'Common Sense.' Following this vein of logic, I am REALLY crushed.
The discovery that I lack 'Women's Intuition' came in a fabulously embarrassing office gaffe. To put the circumstances around this revelation into perspective, allow me to start where my stories usually do: the beginning. I promise the inane details are relevant to events ending as they did.
Yesterday morning, I woke up early. This was through no desire of my own. Cat was stalking Chihuahua across the bed, and Chihuahua was emmitting the 'Chihuahua Death Rattle.' To the cacophony of growling, I added my own hisses of protest and threw them both into the hall.
While I am normally spared sleeping with Wild Kingdom, this week my sister and her husband are cruising the Caribbean. While they are drinking free daiquiris and strolling the Tiki deck, I have been left with care of Chihuahua, who insists on sharing my pillow. Cat, meanwhile, has discovered he is insanely jealous of Chihuahua and has been attempting to remove her by the simple expedient of trying to knock her off the bed.
And to think I was ecstatic at having the house to myself.
Anyway, once I finally made it out of bed, the day continued its nosedive. I dealt with:
1. Dog urine (I forgot to let Chihuahua out right away)
2. Missing cat (when I did let out the dog, the cat slinked out as well. I was chasing Cat in business attire, pleading, begging, cajoling, and finally wheedling the little monster back into my clutches)
3. Cat vomit (I cleaned the fridge yesterday. All that remains are the staples: Beer, cheese, etc. The rest, and I am going to go out on a limb here, made it into Cat before I got it into the trash)
By the time I got everything sorted out, I was late. Running down the steep insurance-hazard driveway with one of my sister's Slim Fasts in hand, I prayed that no one would notice. I am the first in the office anyway, so I figured I was in luck.
No. I wasn't. One of my coworkers had the audacity to get engaged, so everyone arrived early to set up for her surprise wedding shower.
Once everyone greeted me and I apologized for being late, I was immediately put on 'guard duty.' This means I do what I normally do, except this time, I was to pounce on Tracy when she arrived and send her to the back door. I was given freedom to choose how to best accomplish this task. A few of my immediate rejected ideas:
1. Somebody burned something in the microwave again, and until maintenance could come air out the kitchen, she had best use the rear entrance so her suit doesn't smell.
2. Giant rats have invaded the office.
3. Kim needs help chasing another parakeet around the loading dock.
4. The carpet is wet from a construction-caused leak on Pepsi's floor.
5. There is an attorney waiting to serve her with papers right inside.
6. Someone insulted President Bush. The medics need a clear path for when they arrive.
After the mental picture of Kim chasing a parakeet faded, I came across a better solution. A solution involving the inability of our automatic mechanical door-lock to actually work. Inspired by my evolution of a believable plan, I fashioned a sign reading "DOOR BROKEN, USE BACK ENTRANCE."
I planted myself by the narrow window, with intent to hold up the sign when I saw Tracy. In addition, I would gesticulate wildly and shout through the door about how the IT guy wasn't available yet to fix it.
Sadly, before I decided on this plan, I had assaulted my Boss, two of our Lawyers, and the Custodian immediately upon their entry of the office. After I similarly frightened FedEx Guy, I realized how much I hated the opaque door, and thus the legitimate plan was born.
Once I successfully sent a confused Tracy to the back door, I pulled a Paul Revere and ran towards the the heart of the office, screaming "The Bride is coming!! The Bride is coming!!" A mass of employees immediately moved to intercept her before she made it to the kitchen.
Not bad on an empty stomach (The Slim Fast was revolting. I disposed of it in a potted plant. I can only hope the plant doesn't die).
Once all was revealed, and all parties appropriately content with their roles in Tracy's shindig, everyone settled into the conference room with celebratory snacks and refreshments. I sat behind my desk and waited for my turn.
As I sat there, thinking about how it would be nice to be able to leave my desk, I thoughtfully deliberated over each snack that I could see from my vantage point. In particular, two large pitchers of orange juice. Juice, that to a woman like me with Slim-Fast aftertaste in my mouth, looked like Ambrosia.
Of course, not having drank OJ for six months may have contributed as well. Who is to say.
It was with a rejoicing heart that I made my way to the pitchers. The juice looked good. Who is to say that juice from a can is bad? I always liked the extra tang that accompanied not adding as much water as directions say one should.
I picked a large glass, and looked to the signs in front of the pitchers. One sign said OJ. The other, 'Mimosa." They looked identical. It was 9:00 AM. I pointed and laughed. "Kim, look at that! That is too funny. Someone has a sense of humor!" She laughed as well, "I agree. That is funny!"
Happy to get something edible, I selected the pitcher that was the fullest, which was the one marked "Mimosa." I poured, drank a bit, and then topped the glass off. About twenty minutes later I was sitting at my desk, thinking about my headache and how I should take an Ibuprofin. I asked Catherine to watch the desk while I got more juice to drink with it.
Once I returned to my desk, I giggled about my morning -complete with cat vomit- to Catherine. I then mentioned how nice Tracy's shower was, and asked what brand the canned juice was. I told her about how I thought the Mimosa joke was hilarious.
At this point, the phone rang. I let it ring. I announced that it would ring again, later.
Needless to say, Catherine was laughing hysterically, doubled over in gut-busting roars of amusement. I didn't see how my zen-like statement of truth was so funny. But I'd take it.
"Jill, that really was a Mimosa!"More laughter.
As my face drained of all blood, I realized that I was probably a bit buzzed. Just a bit. This was my turn for hysterics, and I immediately did the jump up and down bit, complete with denials of what I thought was really in the pitcher, and how I had no intent to drink at work. The thought of employer entrapment crossed my mind, but after how ridiculous I realized it to be, I wisely kept my mouth shut.
Catherine was still laughing. Carol walked by and then she started to laugh once Catherine explained what was going on. While they were laughing, I excused myself to go on break, where I proceeded to devour my lunch in hopes it would make the headache and irreverency to the phone system to go away.
As I munched my ham sandwich in the kitchen, there were three empty bottles of champagne sitting on the counter. They were seemingly there to bear witness to my office naiivette. I glared at them each in turn as I moved on to attacking the carrot sticks.
This afternoon, Tracy made a point of stopping our IT guy and asking if the door was fixed yet. He had no idea what she was talking about.
Perhaps I am lacking 'Women's Intuition,' or, more appropriately, 'Common Sense.' I do not, however, lack for mortification. Or a twisted sense of humor.
posted by Jill @ 7:34 PM
0 comments
