The Office: A Reality Series

Just a short hot while ago, I emerged from the bathroom to find a youngish man clutching a clipboard and speaking to my coworker Kathy in that faux-official voice that marks the telemarketer and his brethren.

Kathy appeared confused and slightly reluctant to be talking to this youngish clipboard-carrying man, so she referred him to another coworker, Aleeta, who courteously rose from her chair and said, "Yes? How can I help you?"

This is where it gets special.

The youngish man looked straight at Aleeta and, using his clipboard, gestured toward her and said, "May I approach?"

Yes, folks, the dweeby polo-shirt clad 22 year-old solicitor man-child asked if he could "approach."

Somehow I managed to sit back down at my desk without belching laughter and I whipped off a quick IM to Kathy to the effect of: "Did he just say ’May I approach?’"

"Yes. Hee hee," was Kathy’s reply. There might have been an emoticon in there somewhere, but definitely no LOL or ROTFL. We’re adults, people.

Using her superpowers, Aleeta eventually turned him away and we all went back to work. Approximately seven minutes later, when I felt the timing was ripe, I gingerly strode to Aleeta’s desk-area and said, "May I approach?"

Wild laughter ensued.

Wild, wild laughter.

Each of us took turns, howling, asking, "May I approach?"

Bellyaching laughter. Gregarious laughter.

Then we looked to the doorway, only to see Señor Salesman looking in at us before walking outside.

Uh. Apparently he was next door all along.

Like teenage girls, we all ran to the back of the office, behind the cover of a concrete wall, where I proceeded to lay down on the floor and laugh my ass off. Aleeta and Kathy followed in suit, alternately leaning on the wall and a bookcase for support.

"Oh man, that was bad," Aleeta said. "Now we’re gonna get shot."

Kathy and I looked at Aleeta: "Um, I think he’ll be okay. He doesn’t seem very dangerous...I mean, he’s a bottled water salesman."

Aleeta: "Oh, right!"

Dissolve into 60 more seconds of laughter.

Epilogue: Later, a drunk guy came in off of the street and looked at our O’Jays Survival poster, resplendent with afros and naked people, said "Damn that Eddie Murphy!" and kicked the wall.

I’m so happy to have blog fodder again. You have no idea.

is that a burqa or are you just happy to see me?

My bulky Cameroonian trainer Parfait really came up with a zinger this week:

As I straddled a stack of step platforms, squatting until I was pretty sure some muscles were going to start stripping away from the bone, Parfait shot me a very serious look and simply asked, unprovoked:

"Mademoiselle - are you a Muslim?"

I squatted my ass right down onto that stack of steps.

Me: "HUH? Did you just ask me if I was a Muslim?"

Parfait: "Yes, mademoiselle. Well...ARE you?"

Me: "HUH?? Are you serious?"

Parfait: "Yes, mademoiselle. You maybe are a Muslim. Like from Zaire or Congo."

NOTE: I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP

Me: "HUH??? WHAT??? That is the weirdest thing I’ve heard in a long time. No, I’m not a Muslim. Was there any reason you wanted to ask me that?"

Parfait: "No reason, Mademoiselle. I just thought maybe you were." Enter high-pitched laughter. And then he moved me on to do lat raises, end of topic. What the hell? WHAT THE HELL?

Two more training sessions to go, people. I have a feeling that after the last one, he’s going to ask me to be his fourth wife or something. Oh, the many adventures of Parfait.

Hyperion Tavern, Den of Hussies

If I was into short 23 year old video game dorks, Hyperion Tavern would be the best pickup joint.

As it is, within 45 seconds (literally) of me walking in the door last night, I got these two awesome lines:

Said by a short guy wearing flannel and rubbing on a small white dog: "I like your tattoo...it looks good with your face!"

Said by a short guy who bumped my ass with his motorcycle helmet: "So, do you wanna ride on my motorcycle sometime?"

Send them all to Africa -

Again, from the Parfait Files:

Yesterday, as I convinced my thigh muscles to pleaselordpleasepushthatgiantstackofweightsupandawayfrommybody, Parfait was in an inquisitive mood.

Parfait: "Mademoiselle, I bet you read those magazines about all of the crazy people, like 'Oh, what is he wearing?' and 'What is she doing'...?"

Moi: "Um, are you talking about celebrity magazines?"

P: "Oh, yes, Mademoiselle. They are all about Britney Spears and Brad Pitt."

Moi: (struggling to prevent a large quantity of weight from tumbling backward into my fragile knees and crushing my lower extremities) "Um..."

P: "You know what I think they need to do with Britney Spears?"

Moi: (Setting lock on weight machine as to prevent the aforementioned leg-smashing from happening, knowing that this will be a good one) "No...what?"

P: "I think that she should go to my country."

Moi: (delighted that my prophecy has come true) "You want them to ship Britney Spears to Cameroon? What would she do there?"

P: "Oh, Mademoiselle - she would find peace. Britney Spears could have peace in my land."

I dissolve into laughter.

End scene.

Swing, batta, batta...

From the Parfait Files...

On Friday, I lugged my tired, germ-ridden body to the gym for the first session in several weeks with the one and only Cameroonian trainer, Parfait.

While exhorting me to pump it up during a particular exercise, Parfait inquired as to whether or not I liked playing any sports besides soccer. I do, and I told him as much. I then added that one sport that I've never, ever, ever been good at is baseball (substitute softball, if you will) - I just lack the stick-ball coordination necessary to even corner first.

To this, Parfait had an immediate response:

"Oh, mademoiselle, I must be slow or maybe retarded because I cannot understand why American men like to take that little stick and hit that ball. I just do not understand."

[Enter signature high-pitched laugh]

I did what anyone would have done in that situation--I dropped my weights and laughed my ass right off.

munching

Overheard in L.A., whilst eating brunch:

(Scene: Two butchy lesbians seated to my left at a Carribbean café, discussing lesbian sex in VIVID DETAIL, then diverting to a discussion of their mutual circle of friends...)

BL 1: So, my friends all came up with nicknames....like Shayna is Sheniqua and Laura is Lakisha...

BL 2: Well, what is YOUR nickname?

BL 1: (Appearing confused) Um, I don't HAVE a black nickname...because I'm BLACK.

BL 2: (silence) Oh. Right.

Cruisin'

Rejoice, women of the world, for I have found the best place to meet men:

Venice Blvd. between Robertson and National, I swear.

It is in this glorious stretch of semi-abandoned wonderland that I have been flagged down not once, but twice by nubile young male motorists.

Today it began with a technique I refer to as The Parallel Drive...the car on your side (most usually the passenger side, which makes this maneuver all the more special), suddenly slows down and starts driving as if magnetically attached to your vehicular forcefield.

After this slick move came the come-hither hand motions; I glanced once, to be sure I wasn't hallucinating a hawk or something fluttering outside my passenger window (it had been a long day), and then again, locking eyes with a dude sporting a serious fade and driving the auto world chick magnet, an Aztek.

This is where it gets tricky, my friends. I was about to dive into a road rage-reducing book on CD, when I realized that I actually had to roll my window down and find out why Kid n Play was wildly gesturing in my direction -

You see, the last time a gentleman flagged me down on that particular stretch of Venice Blvd, it was to tell me that my right front hubcap had flown off somewhere near Overland and bounced off some guy's rims before boucing off some other guy's bumper.

Concerned Motorist: M'am, you should probably go back and get that.
Unconcerned Motorist: (Crawling in rush hour traffic) Yeah, sure. Thanks. (Sacrificing wayward hubcap to the gods of the roadway in order to avoid slowing my drivetime commute)

So I couldn't risk not knowing whether or not my car was once again producing projectiles.

Vaguely Concerned Motorist: (Keenly aware that it is impossible to keep one eye in front and one looking at homeboy) Yes?
Aztek Warrior: I'm sorry to bother you, m'am. (Always with the "m'am") You are just so beautiful.
VCM: Wha...? (Stopping at red light)
Aztek Warrior: (Joining me at red light) I mean, if you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a question...
VCM: (Driving rapidly through green light)
Aztek Warrior: ( Engaging in The Parallel Drive) You're just so beautiful - can I take you out for a fine lunch or dinner sometime? Or maybe invite you to one of my concerts?"
VCM: (Putting book on CD into player, rolling up window)
Aztek Warrior: Wait...wait....girl, you'd get to come backstage, I promise...

The left lane. Hot new pickup spot. Just make sure you have automatic windows, or else you're screwed.