For years, I’ve heard certain men being referred to as Mega Douche Bags, my husband chief among them. But let me clarify. Mega Douche Bags work for Mega Bank where I was employed until a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t really understand why the Mega Douche Bag differed from an ordinary, run-of-the-mill Douche Bag until recently.
During my last week at Mega, I was leaving work around 5:30 one night, worn out as usual with a 40-minute commute ahead of me. As I was walking out of the ladies restroom, I noticed this guy sitting at his desk about 10 feet away, smiling at me, followed by an auspicious wink.
He was young, 26 at best. I thought maybe, I had intercepted gestures meant for someone else strolling down the hallway behind me. But the hallway was empty. He smiled again, so I decided to see WTF this impudent child was grinning about.
He had dark, curly hair spackled together with more mousse and gel than I could ever amass within my long quaff. His shirt was a pale lavender, and he was wearing a purple tie with tiny, dark blue polka dots with a navy blue suit. So suave…so bold…guess I should’ve just taken him right there just for his grooming props alone if I were that sort of woman. Instead, I found his get-up, his hair and demeanor rather contemptuous.
“I’m sorry, but were you winking at me?” I asked approaching Mr. Hair-Do.
He smiled even brighter if that’s possible (and I’ll bet he’d just Crest-whited his insanely straight teeth not 5 minutes prior, LOL)…
“Um, yeah,” he said awkwardly. “I hope that’s okay. We’ve all been wondering who the new hottie is. I’m Todd.”
“Mrs. Smith,” I said flatly, and those who know me well…know just HOW significant that moniker is. I NEVER call myself Mrs. – ever – nor did I ever use the Mrs. prefix when married previously. I couldn’t tell if this moronic Ken Doll was actually flirting with me, or if he was feigning his attentions for some kinda sick joke. And the fact that he’d called me a “hottie” seemed highly inappropriate at work. Had he NOT taken the required sexual harassment training, or was his face buried in his Blackberry the whole time?
“Seriously?” he asked with an arched eyebrow.
“Yes,” I said adamantly, holding up my badge for emphasis.
He glanced at it and nodded. “Sorry, you know, people, use that name when -”
“Yeah, I get. Now, if you’ll excuse me-” I began.
“Just one more question if you don’t mind,” he said, sweetly.
WTF…”Yes?” I asked, rather agitated.
“Is that a men’s shirt you’re wearing?”
WTF? YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE. “No, it’s not,” I said in a very surly manner. “Great pick-up line there, Casanova, I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.” I snarled. As I turned to walk away, I mumbled, “Fucking dickhead,” …which I guess his buddies heard, evidenced by the howls of laughter behind me.
The Ralph Lauren shirt in question, which I wore with a white skirt.
However, I caught a sidelong glimpse of his lovely cornflower blue eyes clouding over, and I looked away thinking MAYBE…he was THAT KID in school, the “fat” kid with really large glasses and crooked teeth. He wore whatever his mother told him to – yellow Izod shirt that was too small creating odd bulges around his middle…which he donned over black pants that were too short and last but not least, white socks and black dress shoes.
He joined a gym, started drinking GREEN vegie shakes/ gluten free galore and/or anything made with TOFU, a makeover – a la GQ.
Oh, but I was so WRONG. While in the elevator facing them, waiting for the doors to shut, my guilt vanished. Instead of a mortified, late-blooming butterfly cowering in the corner, he was snickering with a couple of his co-worker clones. A second later, he glanced at me, wearing an expression that undoubtedly conveyed….
OOPS…she caught me, followed by giggling behind his well-manicured hand. No, no, no…this guy was the Homecoming King and very proud to be so. He played football, but wasn’t a star, or he wouldn’t be working here, right?
He had 2 or 3 girlfriends and always trolling for another. He drives a BMW, but doesn’t own a sofa, opting for watching TV sprawled out on his bean bag chair because his image is much more important than the “comfy” couch he plans to buy with his next BIG commission check. There was no doubt about it. I had just met the infamous…MEGA DOUCHE BAG.
I hope to hell his question about my blouse was just an idle comment meant in jest, and, God forbid, not part of some stupid bet. His intentions remained a mystery until talking to Jackson, another salesman. He was a tall, handsome
The silver necklace and earrings I wore to dress up the allegedly male shirt…:)
black man in his mid 30s. I’d met Jackson at Minelli’s, a local fast food restaurant near the office, when I inadvertently cut ahead of him in line at lunch one day. I noticed his bank badge, and we struck up a conversation. Turned out, we’re both sci-fi geeks.
I ran into Jackson in the breakroom a week or so after the conversation with Mr. Hairdo. Jackson was heating up his lunch in the microwave, and I walked in to buy a pop.
“Hey, Jackson, how’s it goin’?” I asked.
“Good. Jackson smiled. “By the way, my apologies for the Neanderthals.”
Confused, I asked with a chuckle, “I’m sorry. Which Neanderthals?”
“Griffin and Gordon,” he replied.
I shrugged. These names meant nothing to me.
“Um, the guy with the dark hair, superglued with Redken’s finest gel, made some snide comment about your shirt the other day?”
“Oh….THAT GUY,” I said pursing my lips in annoyance. “He said his name was Todd.”
“Makes it much easier to cheat on his fiance.”
“That figures.”
I had shoved that retarded conversation into my mental trashcan reserved for images of outfits I should never have bought, songs I despise (like Cold as Ice by Foreigner…don’t ever play it / hum it around me if you’d like to continue BREATHING)…as well as – you guessed it…conversations with douche bags!
“First off, I’m gay.”
“Okay,” I said, hesitantly, wondering where he was going with this.
“So what I’m about to tell you isn’t another lame-assed attempt to hit on you, or anything,” he said with a big grin.
“Noted,” I said smiling.
“Mr. Hair who winked at you, that’s Griffin, Griffin Goetz and the blond guy next to him, that’s Gordon.”
“I see,” I said, nodding.
“Griffin’s the worst kind of player, constantly talking about women, especially um..if they’re busty, ya know what I mean?”
“All too well,” I replied.
“Since the first time Griffin saw you walkin’ down the hallway, they all been speculating whether they’s real or not,” he said with a half nod toward my breasts. “And Griffin decided he was gonna chat you up to get a better look. But you didn’t hear any of this from me?”
“What? That your co-workers are asshole douche bags?”
Jackson busted out laughing. “Got that right.”
I just smiled. “Do they know you’re gay?”
“Hell no. I don’t want them knowing nothin’ about me, and they kinda hate me cuz my sales are usually higher than theirs.”
I smiled. “Awesome.”
“Why?”
“Meet me back here around 5:15,” I said.
“Why?” Jackson asked. At which point, I revealed my plan.
STAY TUNED BOYS AND GIRLS…
For the unveiling of MY REVENGE upon the Mega Douche Bags in a day or two…
Over and out…
~TB
And her band of truth-spouting hippies
