My relationship with her seems to consist of an endless series of incomprehensible or annoying interactions. Here’s a list of some of the most notable:
- I had to inform BA of my recent trip to St. Louis, because I would be out of the office for a couple of days. I told her it was a family emergency. Immediately she asked me “Do you need any luggage?”
“Uh, no I have luggage,” I responded.
“But do you need any extra luggage?” she insisted.
“I’m going for four days,” I explained. “I’ll only need a small carry-on bag.”
“What about your family?” she asked. “Do they need any luggage?”
“I’m travelling alone,” I was forced to explain. “We don’t need any luggage.”
Eventually, she backed off. I’m 60 years old. I have luggage.
Crispy Rice Cakes
- BA often eats at her desk, but because she sits behind me, I’m not obligated to witness this spectacle. She keeps snacks around, munching on them throughout the day.
One day, she had a large bag of cheese-flavored rice cakes, and rather than pour some onto a paper plate, she simply reached into the bag to pull them out individually. This is perfectly fine, similar to drinking out of the milk carton when you know you’re the only person who’s going to drink it. But then, for no apparent reason, she turned to me and thrust the open end of the bag into my face.
“Want some?” she asked. “They’re really crispy.”
I should mention that BA’s personal hygiene leaves a lot to be desired. Her dirty yellow fingernails clutched the bag – the same hands that had been rooting around in it moments earlier.
“No thank you,” I replied.
“They’re really good,” she insisted. “Crispy!”
I patted my churning stomach and protested that I absolutely couldn’t eat a single rice cake.
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” she sighed, returning to her desk. “They’re so crispy.”
- We had a meeting in a conference room. The room had a table surrounded by office chairs on wheels. Each chair, like most office chairs, included a series of levers to control height, lumbar support, tilt, etc.
BA and I were the first to arrive, and she wandered around the room, moving chairs.
“What are you doing? I asked.
“Looking for a short chair,” she explained. “These are all too tall for me.”
Apparently, she had never heard of the height adjustment mechanism, or had never learned to operate it. We had another meeting the following morning, so the night before, I went in and set all the chairs to their maximum height.
It’s Not Greasy
- I take medication that dries out my hands for some reason. So I have to use hand lotion occasionally. One day, I was in the break room with BA, and I noticed a bottle of hand lotion. I squirted a large dollop onto my hands. As I stood there rubbing my hands together, BA insisted that I follow her back to her desk.
“I have some really good hand lotion,” she told me. “It’s not greasy at all.” She lifted the bottle and held it out, finger on the plunger.
“I have some on my hands already,” I told her, still rubbing my hands together to disperse the lotion I had just used.
“This isn’t greasy,” she said.
“Thanks, but I don’t need it,” I replied, displaying my slimy hands. “I just put lotion on my hands.”
“Try it, you’ll really like it because it’s not greasy,” she declared, and squirted a big glop of her non-greasy hand lotion onto my palm.
I returned to my desk, my glistening, slug-like hands now useless for anything but obscene gestures.