Smooth Operator

Oh boys. When will you learn?

Normally I get really aggravated when someone hits on me at work. First of all, I think it's just rude. When I'm at work, I can't exactly walk away from you, nor can I tell you to go fuck yourself. So I'm immediately at a disadvantage. All I can really do is paste a smile on, pretend to be busy, and hope that you'll leave quickly.
But they NEVER LEAVE QUICKLY!
Not quickly enough for my tastes, anyway.

I think that much of the problem stems from a vicious rumor that many men buy into. Often, they seem to assume that all women are inherently complicated and... compulsive liars, I suppose. If we look interested, we want them. If we look disinterested, we're being coy. And if we kick them in their shins, and call them fuckturds, then we have both turret's syndrome and unwieldy reflexes. But make no mistake. We still want them.

The other thing is that there is so much confusion on what attracts women. For instance tonight's specimen, Mr DeathMetal, apparently had decided that the following would sweep me off my feet:
- an extensive knowledge of Slayer.
- the random and seemingly forced statement that he had lots of money (which fit awkwardly, if at all, into the conversation with the poorly placed "It's a good thing you don't work in a bank. Then you'd see my account and only want me for my money.")
- the assertion, after approximately 30 seconds of artificial chit-chat that "people are stupid... but you're like a genius." Okay, I *am* a genius, but even my overly-inflated ego won't let me believe that that was sincere.
- the comment that manual labor was beneath him (might want to ask a girl's stance on union issues before trashing labor.)
- oh! and he owns a lawn care business. But don't worry. He only stops in to keep the employees in line- he makes *them* do all the work. Note: owning a "lawn care business" is 22 year old code for "I have a cell phone and a weedwhacker." Oh, and see the previous comment re: the trashing of labor.

But that part was only mildly painful. The part that really made my brain cells suicidal was the *philosophy* talk. He wanted to know what I thought about The Matrix and how it related to life. Um. Maybe he didn't get the memo, but I believe that talking-point dates back to the ancient flirtation attempts of 1999 amateur philosophers. Here in modern day civilization, we've moved on to... oh, let's say, the Spongebob movie. And, you know, how it relates to... stuff.

And once they find out my major, it's all over. I'm doomed. This captain goes down with the ship. If I had known that "aerospace engineering" was goober-guy code for "likes to talk about cars," I would have majored in puppies.

But all this work on his part was for naught. And that's what helped me get through the ordeal. The best thing about being married (aside from that whole love thing) is that you have a foolproof way to get out of an awkward situation. So when he FINALLY got to the point: "can we hang out sometime," I was able to cut him off with "well, between school and work, I barely even get to see my husband, so I don't think so."

Well, it used to be foolproof.

Apparently, the whole marriage thing just doesn't phase guys like it used to. Instead of backing away slowly like they ought to, they just try to manuever around it. "Oh yeah? Where's the ring?"
I don't wear one. So sue me!
"What's your new last name?"
I didn't change it. So bite me!

And then there's the attempt to get a financial advantage over the ball-and-chain. "what does he do for a living?" is typically followed by a see-through attempt at "well here's what I do, and here's why I make more money."

Look, I met Mr. Wankershanks before he had a job. I started dating him when he delivered pizzas and I moved in with him after he got fired from a BAR. I'm really glad that other guys keep reminding me that I'm only concerned about money because, apparently, I keep forgetting!

As I was saying earlier. Normally, I get really aggravated when someone hits on me at work. But sometimes, when the planets line up just right and the pick up lines are so consistently bad, even I can laugh and enjoy it. So thank you, Mr. DeathMetal. You have brightened my day.

But if you ever darken my doorway again, I'll feed you to the manual laborers.