MYOB: The Direct Approach

21 09 2010

Balancing coffee on The Bump, Creepy Creepy Guys get on the train. “Well, isn’t that a sour puss? You’re (imitates duck face). Cranky much?”
“Mmmm.”
“On your way to work?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t talk to people I don’t know.”
CCG#1 makes sour beer face. I return to glazed stare out of the opposite window.
“Well, if you don’t talk to strangers, then how do you meet new people?!”, CCG #1 inquires.
CCG #2 comments, “Probably at the candy shop.” (aside: WTF, a candy shop? are you serious?)

CCG #1 says, “So what are you hoping for?”
(voice in the back of my head, “A fu&^ing puppy that poops skittles you pervert!”)

Thank goodness it was my stop, but I felt his eyes on me the whole time.

So, ladies and gentlemen, in the interest of how to get people to stop talking to you, I bit the bullet and can report that even the direct approach of “I AM NOT TALKING TO YOU.” does not work.





WTFFriday: “MYOB in Paint”

17 09 2010

Due to my current state of waddledom, I cop out and take the LIRR half a mile to my office.
I choose to sit at the front of the first car, tying not to sit close to other people, such as one does in the restroom (occupied, empty, occupied, empty).

Getting to a front seat, there’s someone on the train I haven’t seen before and well, that voice in my head said “Maybe you should sit further back” and the other voice said, “It’s only two stops!”
So I pass Unrecognizable Person, and make sure there’s two seats between us; the train has one other person on it at this point.

I wasn’t quite able to get her hair big enough without blocking out the rest of the scene. Work with me here.
So, I take my seat, resume my I-feel-unlady-like-but-damn-it’s-comfortable-to-not-close-my-knees seated position.
I hear that screechy theme from Friday the 13th start playing and in slow motion, I see Unrecognized Person turn towards me.

“WHEN IS THE BABY DUE??!?!?!”, U.P. says SUPER LOUD.
Not feeling like a total bitch, or maybe because I chickened out, I did NOT say, “What baby?” or “Do I know you?”. Instead I forcibly laughed and said, “A few weeks still.”
“Wow, you’re working up right till the end, huh?!”
Resisting temptation to have her come see  my obvious car, I nod, not making eye contact, “Uh huh. I feel fine, there’s no reason not to.”
“SOOOOOOOO, do you know what you’re having?!?!?!?”
Thinking that she’s not getting the hint from my tone, I try looking tired and say very simply, “No.”
She faces forward, taking that “Oh, you don’t want to talk to me about your bbbbaaaabbbyyyy” skunky beer face*.
Then the Friday the 13th screeching starts again.

“Welllllll, I JUST found out that MY daughter is pregnant!”, she says, turning her body towards me, trying to engage me in conversation.
“Congratulations.”
“Poor thing is so sick. Just vomiting all the time and nauseous.”
I do that forced laugh thing again, “Yeah, I hear that happens.”
Skunky beer face, again. “The doctor wants to put her on medication, but she doesn’t want to take it.”
“Ah ha ah ah.” (I am Stephanie’s feigned interest)

I turn away, not a total body turn, but more of “hey, what goes on over here.”
It was her stop. “Well”, she sing-songs, “Good luck!”
“Thank you.”

The other person on the train was smirking the whole time.

Note: Headphones and books do nothing in these situations. People tap me on the arm to ask questions.

Dilemma: “Oh, hush up, they’re just happy and excited for you!”, some people say.
Those people don’t understand.
First of all, I often don’t know the person who is asking me these questions. HOW exactly are they excited or happy for me?
Second, I feel as though incubating questions are personal. Do these people ask other people what kind of underpants people wear? Do they ask clearly sick people how their feeling? Oh, wait, sorry, it’s allowed to be nosy with pregnant people because babies are precious and adorable… cancer is scary and bad and we don’t want to discuss that.

*You know, when you crack open a beer, expecting it to be all kinds of awesome and then it’s that rogue beer that ends up being f-ing gross.

(Funny, Pregnant Chicken just posted about Things I Wanted to Say While I was Pregnant)





Monday, Why do you Torture me??!

13 09 2010

It’s feeling a bit like Friday the 13th, rather than Monday the 13th.

1) Traffic on the 10s is useless when you don’t announce an accident that’s more than 10 minutes old. Especially when it’s right after I pass the last exit to take the alternate route.

2) Constant Comment is in the office. (remember him? Here, here and here)

He comes up to me, I’m already in a bad mood and he’s using that “You’re so young and stupid” voice… “So, how you feeling these days?”
“Fine.” (Thinking, “Go away.”)
“Feeling the baby kick?”
“I’m 9 months pregnant. I should hope so.” (mind you, he was in a month ago and asked when I was due, clearly out of courtesy, then promptly started talking about himself.)
“Oh, then you can go about any time then!” (my new least favorite phrase)
“I have a few weeks still. (“GO. AWAY.”)
Taking a “I have poops older than you!” tone with me, “Bet you want some advice.”
Taking a “I’m being serious when I say this” tone back to him, “No. Actually, I don’t.”
He proceeds to talk to me anyway.

3) Note to Annoyance, you know that I was working on that proposal. Why aren’t you asking me about it?





WTFFriday: Shorties

10 09 2010

(I know you’ve all missed me soooooo much… no MiniMak yet, just nothing “exciting” going on; doubt you care about my whining that Dairy Queen is closed at 9pm.)

Dear Media Outlets,
If you don’t want something to be news, don’t pick it up or cover it.
That nutjob with the Quran burning, he’s getting the attention he wants because you’re giving it to him.
Sure, it’s news, but YOU’RE the ones blowing it out of proportion. Not saying that what he’s doing is wrong or right, but he had a flock of 50. In Florida.
Pretty sure it wouldn’t have been national news if you’d keep it in your pants.

(now that we’ve got the unpleasantness out of the way)

Dear Old Navy,
You’re so hard to resist with your chunky sweaters, non-mumu maternity clothes and adorbs baby stuff.
I wish I knew how to quit you.

Dear People Who Don’t Know,
When a lady is pretty far along in her pregnancy, she’s got a good idea of if there’s one or more babies in there.
Asking her if there’s twins in there causes undue TMJ flare ups. Extra flare for following up with, “Are you sure?”
This, just moments after you commented on how good (read: smaller then someone this far along)  she looks.
Besides, if there were twins A) you would have heard about it by now B) They’d be the size of peanuts because twiners are A LOT bigger.

Dear Date Requesters,
Baby isn’t taking requests for birth day.
We’re honored that  you’d be willing to share your birthday with us, but really, when he/she is ready, that’s when it is.
Stop looking at me like I took Old Yeller out back when I say, “We’ll see when we decide to come…”

Dear Rotating Doctor,
I’m sure it’ll be nice to meet you next week.
Sorry that our first encounter is going to require your looking at my lady bits. This isn’t how I usually start relationships off.