Friday, February 17, 2012

Sixth of the Year

I often dream of joining the 21st century.  So many of the rest of you seem to be enjoying it.

My computer skills are negligible.  I don't skype or tweet or voit or gavotte or do any other of those spiffy high-tech thingys.  I do not own a laptop, an ipad, an MP3 player or any music playing device smaller than a backpack. I do not own a Keurig coffee maker.  Even my microwave only works half the time. 

But mostly I feel old-fashioned because my workplace is in a timewarp, circa 1959.  Here are the two latest examples:

My one boss said to me today, "We have a potential intern coming in today.  Her name is Bass-Bassa--Bassi--she's really foreign."  Not, "she's from Angola" or "she's from Turkey"; because countries are irrelevant.  What matters is that she talks funny and wouldn't know who Nick Saban was if she slept with him.  (Which He would never do, of course, because she's a foreigner.)  I stubbed out my Lucky Strike in my metal ashtray, adjusted the tiny velvet bow stuck in my bouffant and said, "Gotcha, Boss! I'll keep an eye out for the gook!"  And scene.  From "Picnic".

When we remodeled our offices, I asked for a coat rack, so I could put my seedy blue coat somewhere other than the floor.  My request was ignored, so I took it on myself to order one (take that, Rick Santorum!).  I jury-rigged it together yesterday (my mechanical skills suck, #1 reason why I didn't go into technical theatre).  My other (even yuckier) boss walked by my bunker and said, "Got yourself a new rack, huh?"  This is a man who has already taken a trip or two down the Sexual Harrassment Highway, but he won't let that stop him from gunning up that on ramp.  I put down my steno pad, adjusted the seams in my nylons and said, "Oooo…good one, Boss.  Why doncha pat my ass for good measure?"  And scene.  This one's a bit more, "The Ice Man Cometh", don't you think?

Well, at least it's Friday.  Soon I can climb into my Ford Fairlane, head home, strap on my apron, pour myself and the hubby a couple of martoonis and fix a big roast beef dinner with all the trimmings.  Afterwards, we'll put a Jack Jones record on the hi-fi and hold hands sitting three feet apart on the sofa. 

Aw, fuck it, I'll just go to rehearsal.

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