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Authors: Lorelei James
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drink on.
With Greg’s absence this week I thought I’d have a reprieve from the corporate crap. No such luck. I wish I could’ve taped the conversations as proof that men were as catty and cutting as women. Worse maybe.
At one point I had to bite my tongue to keep from demanding that Greg’s junior assistant, Peterson, drop his trousers so I could affirm that he did, indeed, have balls. I’d never dealt with such a whiner. He expected management to listen raptly as he relayed how his coworkers’ actions made him “feel.” Evidently his emotional outbursts didn’t make him feel like a whiny douchebag who needed his ass kicked. That’s when I’d drifted into my Fight Club fantasy and imagined choking him out with my knee in the spot where his balls used to be.
The one upside to the week—besides seeing Boone twice—was using my frustration to move mountains. Literally. Lu had claimed a corner of the backyard as a place to showcase her landscaping design work. I agreed to buy the raw materials but we had to take delivery of the truckload of river rock on Wednesday. Between Lu’s classes and her job, she didn’t have time to fill a wheelbarrow, push it across the yard, dump it and repeat two hundred more times. Not really that many times, but it’d sure felt like it. Surprisingly, physical labor turned out to be awesome therapy for me—better than baking. Anger gone, muscles so sore I fell into a near coma after soaking in the hot tub. Plus, I had actually shocked my normally unflappable roommate. She’d expected to come home to a pile of muffins, cookies, pies, cheesecake and brownies—baking was my go-to stress reliever.
But Lu hadn’t let me off the hook when I’d mentioned that spending time with Boone had been the only upside to my Wednesday.
She’d reiterated her “bone Boone and bail” stance and then she’d gone to bed. Leaving me to wrestle with figuring out what he wanted to talk about.
Why couldn’t Boone just say, “Hey McKay, let’s have a beer after you get off work, swap stories about what we’ve been doing the last seven years and I’ll tell you what’s on my mind?” I might’ve said what the hell. But the way he kept saying, “We have to talk,” I heard the dun dun dun of ominous music in my head and wanted to run the opposite direction.
After this week’s sensitivity sessions, an even worse scenario tormented me: that somehow, Brooding Boone had become “in touch” with his emotions like that fucker Peterson. That Boone might expect me to finally “vocalize” my hurt and disappointment to him about his decision to go off in pursuit of his life goals and dreams.
Screw that. Maybe we oughta discuss how much of a dickhead move it’d been when you’d given me, oh, half an hour notice before you skipped Wyoming for good.
Because how I felt about it now? Immaterial. How I’d felt back then? Brokenhearted and pissed off. But that wasn’t news to either of us. So what purpose did talking about it now serve? None for me. Guilt was his issue; he could deal with it.
Right now I didn’t want to think about anything but tracking down the keg. If I got slam-a-lammered, my cousins would let me crash with them. Apparently I amused them in that state, which was pretty rare for me.
I parked down the street from the house my cousins lived in. They’d had a rough freshman year living in the dorms. Over the summer I’d debated on asking them to live with me; I had enough room and we all got along well. Then Ky’s cousin Mase Morrison had relocated to Phoenix to play hockey professionally for the Scorpions and he’d bought a McMansion with his signing bonus. So the pro hockey player, the football player, the rodeoer and the chess clubber all coexisted happily in McJock Central. And seeing the clusters of people filling up the driveway and spilling out the front door…I couldn’t imagine living with this mess. I might love parties but it’d drive me batshit crazy to face
With Greg’s absence this week I thought I’d have a reprieve from the corporate crap. No such luck. I wish I could’ve taped the conversations as proof that men were as catty and cutting as women. Worse maybe.
At one point I had to bite my tongue to keep from demanding that Greg’s junior assistant, Peterson, drop his trousers so I could affirm that he did, indeed, have balls. I’d never dealt with such a whiner. He expected management to listen raptly as he relayed how his coworkers’ actions made him “feel.” Evidently his emotional outbursts didn’t make him feel like a whiny douchebag who needed his ass kicked. That’s when I’d drifted into my Fight Club fantasy and imagined choking him out with my knee in the spot where his balls used to be.
The one upside to the week—besides seeing Boone twice—was using my frustration to move mountains. Literally. Lu had claimed a corner of the backyard as a place to showcase her landscaping design work. I agreed to buy the raw materials but we had to take delivery of the truckload of river rock on Wednesday. Between Lu’s classes and her job, she didn’t have time to fill a wheelbarrow, push it across the yard, dump it and repeat two hundred more times. Not really that many times, but it’d sure felt like it. Surprisingly, physical labor turned out to be awesome therapy for me—better than baking. Anger gone, muscles so sore I fell into a near coma after soaking in the hot tub. Plus, I had actually shocked my normally unflappable roommate. She’d expected to come home to a pile of muffins, cookies, pies, cheesecake and brownies—baking was my go-to stress reliever.
But Lu hadn’t let me off the hook when I’d mentioned that spending time with Boone had been the only upside to my Wednesday.
She’d reiterated her “bone Boone and bail” stance and then she’d gone to bed. Leaving me to wrestle with figuring out what he wanted to talk about.
Why couldn’t Boone just say, “Hey McKay, let’s have a beer after you get off work, swap stories about what we’ve been doing the last seven years and I’ll tell you what’s on my mind?” I might’ve said what the hell. But the way he kept saying, “We have to talk,” I heard the dun dun dun of ominous music in my head and wanted to run the opposite direction.
After this week’s sensitivity sessions, an even worse scenario tormented me: that somehow, Brooding Boone had become “in touch” with his emotions like that fucker Peterson. That Boone might expect me to finally “vocalize” my hurt and disappointment to him about his decision to go off in pursuit of his life goals and dreams.
Screw that. Maybe we oughta discuss how much of a dickhead move it’d been when you’d given me, oh, half an hour notice before you skipped Wyoming for good.
Because how I felt about it now? Immaterial. How I’d felt back then? Brokenhearted and pissed off. But that wasn’t news to either of us. So what purpose did talking about it now serve? None for me. Guilt was his issue; he could deal with it.
Right now I didn’t want to think about anything but tracking down the keg. If I got slam-a-lammered, my cousins would let me crash with them. Apparently I amused them in that state, which was pretty rare for me.
I parked down the street from the house my cousins lived in. They’d had a rough freshman year living in the dorms. Over the summer I’d debated on asking them to live with me; I had enough room and we all got along well. Then Ky’s cousin Mase Morrison had relocated to Phoenix to play hockey professionally for the Scorpions and he’d bought a McMansion with his signing bonus. So the pro hockey player, the football player, the rodeoer and the chess clubber all coexisted happily in McJock Central. And seeing the clusters of people filling up the driveway and spilling out the front door…I couldn’t imagine living with this mess. I might love parties but it’d drive me batshit crazy to face
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