Memorial Pepsi

My wife works exclusively with women.

She's a speech language pathologist and, for some reason, men have anaphylactic reactions to this profession. I don't know what it is. In her graduate program, there were three men-- one was gay and wore pointy cowboy boots, tight muscle shirts, short-cropped hair with long sideburns, aviator sunglasses and cologne. The other was a 60+ year-old former attorney who used to stutter and now wants to help his people who, I guess, are formerly stuttering ex-attorneys. I forget who the third guy in her program was-- probably the Unabomber's nephew.

I guess I need a disclaimer before I go any further with this blog post, you know, in addition to Magpie's wonderful disclaimer at the top of the blog:

"This blog post isn't meant to offend women, especially those of you who are currently riding the Cotton Pony, because I know how you're going to react in particular, flying of the handle in that charmingly over-emotional way of yours, throwing little lace-covered pillows at your cute, white iMacs with My Little Pony stickers on the back. You know I love women, because I'm straight and women have hot boobies and other fun, soft bits and you're, like, 99.7% of my readership. So, you know, no offense or whatever."

Phew. Glad that's over with.

Now, if I worked exclusively with women, I would probably pull my tonsils out with my bare hands and stick them inside my glasses lenses and run around the office screaming about Charles Grodin films. Actually, come to think of it, I do work exclusively with women, but I also work with children, so they tend to balance out the estrogen-slathered insanity with their concrete logic and dry sense-of-humor.

God bless kids. They are the perfect antidote to women. (Who knew, right?)

Especially women who run non-profits. Oy, God. If I never see another meaningless brooch, flowy scarf, eclectic pair of eyeglasses, or dykey, salt-and-pepper haircut, I'll die a happy, happy man.

Now, getting back to my wife's place of employ, she and I frequently decompress by coming home and comparing notes on how awful it is to work solely with women-- the fretting, the indecision, the temptation to discuss about feelings, the incessant need to have "check-ins" and "talks," the "Are you okay's?" The meetings. Oh, God. The meetings. Must.... not..... reach..... for....... tonsils....... didn't..... wash.... hands.... today.........

My wife's coworkers had a pow-wow last week because one of the employees at her center recently lost her brother to cancer. A decision was made by staff that something nice should be done to let the coworker know that the group of cluck old hens were thinking of her, and that they acknowledged her loss-- which is, of course, very nice.

Hen 1: I think we ought to take up a collection to buy a card for her that we can all sign, and then the remainder of the money could be donated to the American Cancer Society.

Hen 2: Oh, that's such a sweet idea, Hen 1. How much do you think we should all donate?

Hen 1: Oh, I don't know, let's talk about it. Maybe $5.00 a head?

Hen 2: Oh, do you think that's enough?

(Sidebar: Why do middle-aged women always seem start sentences with "Oh"? Are they always surprised or something?)

Hen 3: Oh, well, let's think about that.

Hen 4: Oh, I have a lovely plant that I could bring in and give to her.

Hen 5: Oh, that's so sweet! And maybe we could get her some flowers, too.

Hen 6: Oh, that's such a great idea, Hen 5. She loves flowers!

Hen 2: Oh, well, who doesn't love flowers?

Hen 7: Oh, you know, she loves fruit. Maybe we could use some of the money to buy her a big fruit salad, too.

Hen 4: Oh, Hen 7-- that's great! Oh, or, we could just bring in some fruit and chop it up.

Hen 3: Oh, you know those fruit bouquets they do-- what are those things called? Eating Delights? We should buy her one of those, too!

(Sidebar: Excuse me, after all this fucking swag is purchased, how much money is the American Cancer Society getting? Three-and-a-half cents?)

Hen 5: Oh, now she will just love that. Hey-- you know what else she loves? Pepsi and chips. Why don't we all buy her some Pepsi and chips?

..............................................

Pepsi. And chips.

"Hi, hon! Listen, we're all so sorry for the loss of your brother. Here, we made you this card and we all signed it, just like a bunch of 5th graders might do for their teacher on graduation day. We also got you a flower bouquet, and this bouquet with a bunch of cut honeydew and cantaloupe and pineapple and shit-- you can eat this bouquet, unlike the other one which just smells nice. We also got you a plant-- don't eat that either. But, if you've just got to eat something, we also got you Pepsi and chips.

Because we all know how much you love Pepsi and chips.

Oh, and here's a check for three-and-a-half cents for the American Cancer Society. Peace."