Archive for flirting

Post #154 – Conversation With A Mega Douche Bag!

Posted in blogging, comedy, corporations, humor, life, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, work with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on August 17, 2015 by tenaciousbitch

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 walking out of the ladies restroom one night before heading out, when I noticed this guy smiling at me – from his desk about 10 feet away. As I pondered the nature of his grin, he winked at me.

He was 26 at best. I thought maybe, his flirtation was meant for someone else walking behind me. But the hallway was empty. He smiled again, so I decided to see WTF was going on with this impudent child.

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.

“Were you winking at me?” I asked approaching Mr. Hair-Do.

He smiled even brighter, his insanely straight teeth seemed to be glaring at me.

“Um, yeah,” he said awkwardly. “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 do so when married previously. I couldn’t tell if this moronic Ken Doll was actually hitting on me, or if he was feigning his attentions as some kinda sick joke. And using the word “hottie” was highly inappropriate. 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 it. Now, if you’ll excuse me-” I began.

“Just one more question if you don’t mind,” he said, sweetly.

“Yes?” I asked, rather agitated.

“Is that a men’s shirt you’re wearing?”

WTF? YOU PEA-BRAINED ASSHOLE. “No, it’s not,” I said in a very surly manner. “Great line there, Casanova, I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.” I snarled.  I turned away mumbling, “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 the “fat” kid in school with really large glasses and crooked teeth. He wore whatever his mother told him to – yellow Izod shirt that was too small creating ugly bulges around his middle…with 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/ eating anything gluten free or made with TOFU, etc., reinvented himself – 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, I saw him snickering with a couple of his co-worker clones. After a sneaky glance at me, his expression morphed into the unmistakable….

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 a couple girlfriends and was 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 two days later. Jackson was a tall, handsome black man in his mid 30s. We met 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. He 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 Jackson was going with this.

“So what I’m about to tell you ain’t another lame-assed pick-up line, or nothin’,” 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.”


“Meet me back here around 5:15,” I said.

“Why?” Jackson asked. At which point, I revealed my plan.


For the unveiling of MY REVENGE upon the Mega Douche Bags in a few days…

Over and out…


And her band of truth-spouting hippies



Posted in Family, family battles, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on June 27, 2011 by tenaciousbitch

The next morning, I took my Escalade back to the dealership, and I was told it was overheating because there were air bubbles in the radiator. Charlie said that was total bullshit, but whatever.  Just make my car run without the engine’s temp reaching volcanic levels! They put my SUV in a service bay and let it run for about 10 minutes. I was told it could take as long as an hour. I got bored, so I asked the manager, Tom, if someone could give me a lift back to my Grandmother’s, which was TWO miles away. “I need to finish packing,” I said.

“No, but we have a shuttle that goes to the mall,” Tom replied.

Why are all men so thick-headed that they think a trip to the mall is a goddamned cure-all? I didn’t say—Hey, I need some new pantyhose/shorts/undies, can someone run me over to the MALL? No, I said, I WANNA GO HOME AND PACK….

Tom gave me a rather impatient look, complete with tautly drawn eyebrows. “No, I need to go to my Grandmother’s and pack, but, yeah, the mall’s a great substitute for that.” With an annoyed eye roll at Cindy, who smiled, I strutted over to the showroom to wait on the shuttle.

Upon arriving at the mall, I bee-lined over to Barnes & Noble. I bought Catching Fire, the second book in the The Hunger Games series by Suzanne Collins.

I bought a bottle of water at the Starbucks inside B&N, sat down, and started reading. A few minutes later, I could feel someone’s eyes on me. I glance up from my book, and there’s this guy approaching me carrying a laptop. He’s tall and built like a redwood tree with legs. With an 18-inch neck, he was a real sporto dude, except for the fact that his light brown hair is shoulder-length, and he was wearing smallish hoop earrings and a silver cross studded with turquoise chips. A definite identity crisis—as if he couldn’t decide if he’s a hippy, wanna-be-musician, or a professional wrestler.

A good-looking man, but I just wanted to read MY BOOK until my car was ready. I did NOT feel like dealing with some individuality-conflicted schmoozer who didn’t notice my wedding ring…or didn’t CARE that I’m married.

He gave me a slight smile and said, “Would you mind to plug in my laptop?” He nodded toward the electrical outlet beside my table.

“Sure, no problem,” I replied, hoping that was REALLY all he wanted. I plugged in his laptop and went back to reading my book. But, NO, Sporto Guy is still standing there, awkwardly staring at me.

I looked up at him with a quizzical expression, doing my best to convey the attitude of: What the hell do you want?

“I like your earrings,” said Sporto Guy.

I was wearing my peace symbol necklace with earrings to match. “Thanks,” I said, turning my attention back to Katniss Everdeen, the main character in The Hunger Games/Catching Fire.

“I make jewelry,” said Sporto Guy as he sat down at the table across from me. With a flicker of my eyes in his direction and a polite, rather strained smile, I, once again, went back to the throes of Katniss’s dilemma.

At this point, thankfully, Sporto Guy started typing on his laptop, and he left me alone. But, of course, this ISN’T the end of my tale.

Sporto Guy went over and got himself a cappuccino and came sauntering back toward me smiling. “So, do you live around here?”

I could feel my face tightening, my jaws clenching, and I really just wanted to FLATTEN this guy (like Wiley Coyote in the cartoons :)). But, not knowing if he’s a mother-hating/just-got-dumped-by-someone-who-looks-a-lot-like-me/Hannibel-Lecter-Wanna-Be, I didn’t want to antagonize him. “No, I don’t.” I replied politely with a sigh that was supposed to indicate, I’M NOT INTERESTED! GO the fuck AWAY, but it didn’t work. I guess some guys need a SLEDGE HAMMER to their hand before getting the hint.

With a goofy grin, he glances around the bookstore scrambling to think of something to say. He sips his coffee and continues babbling, “Some of my jewelry is being showcased at the arts and crafts fair tomorrow at the VFW on Spring Street, and then, I’m leaving for another show in North Carolina.” As if this was really supposed to WOW me, as if he and his WORK were going on tour.  “It’s a benefit for paralyzed veterans. You should stop by, see some of my stuff,” he said with another TOOTHY smile.

“No, I’m…” then, luckily, I was SAVED BY THE BELL, literally when my I-Phone started ringing. I glanced at the caller i.d., thrilled to see it was someone from the dealership. “Hello?” I said, looking away from Sporto Guy, who shifted his feet nervously. “Okay, thanks, Tom. I’ll be right there.” I said, hoping maybe he’d think TOM was my husband or something.

But still, Sporto Guy stood there, biting his lip, followed by a nervous grin. I hung up my phone, set it on the table and started to stash my book in my purse when Sporto Guy grabbed my phone and….

Photo taken by the Sporto I-Make-Jewelry-Guy

Yeah…took my picture. By the look on his face, it was obvious that Sporto Guy just realized he’d wasted $20 on whatever how to pick up women manual he’d bought because obviously I was rather non-plussed by his impromptu photo session, and DOUBLY NOT impressed by his Don Juan textbook manner of trying to score.

With an annoyed frown, I grabbed my I-Phone and my book and slid them both into my purse. As I stood up to go, I saw Sporto Guy’s business card on the table in front of me. I picked it up and glanced at the card, which read:

Jensen Hart
Jewelry Artist/Poet
P.O. Box 543
Savannah, GA  31402
(800) 556-7298

“Maybe, you could email me that pic…” he began, but my giggle preempted the rest of his speech. I couldn’t help it. Despite my attempts to STIFLE my outburst and with all the stress from Danny, the urge to laugh was all the more difficult to control. I looked down and again, squelching another belt of laughter when I saw him slither away toward the coffee counter out of the corner of my eye.

I’m sorry, but POET? Have I suddenly been transported back to 1967? I guess seeing the word POET, I was supposed to follow him home and tumble into his bed like a $4-dollar whore.

I glanced across Starbucks where he seemed to be pretending to look at the carb-laden muffins in the glass case. With an embarrassed glance at me, he ordered a really big chocolate muffin from the barista. A good choice, I thought. Chocolate always makes ME feel better after I’ve made a complete ASS of myself.

I shuffled out of Barnes & Noble, feeling rather sorry for the Sporto I-Make-Jewelry Guy. I wondered maybe, if he’d been over in Iraq or something, given his thick-necked stature. And, maybe, he was having difficult acclimating to being back in the states. He looked like he was late 20s/early 30s, so such was possible, or MAYBE, he’s just a tool… 🙂

However, the REALLY funny thing was….

The NEXT day as I was driving back to Ohio

, I stopped at an outlet mall in North Carolina to grab lunch at the Food Court. As I was standing in line to order some Kung Pao chicken at the HUNAN LION, I saw Sporto I-Make-Jewelry Guy sitting at a table next to several other artists (all women), who were hocking their homemade quilts, hand-painted pots and wildlife drawings, etc. He was talking to a 20-something, rather skinny young blonde, who was giggling and obviously rather intrigued by his silver bracelet, studded with Turquoise chips.  Turquoise chips seem to be a theme in his ART.

I quickly RUSHED to the other side of the Food Court to the pizza shop before he could see me. I didn’t want Kung Pao chicken badly enough to risk Sporto Guy seeing me and thinking I’d followed him or something, instead of the REAL LIFE coincidence that I just happened to stop at THE discount mall where he was showcasing his stuff ☺….and I truly hoped that the young blonde would fall madly in love with Jensen Hart, Sporto Guy, a.k.a. the Jewelry Artist/Poet….so he would stop hitting on married women in bookstores….just DON’T show her your business card… 🙂

PEACE OUT from my Stop and Smell the Crazy Life…