"He doesn't need to, because that's how he talks in real life." Elizabeth's teasing statement drew chuckles from everyone except me.
I tried, but I didn't laugh this time. Couldn't. Thankfully, the subject change provided an opportunity to dart out of the room to refill Janie's water. Walking into the kitchen, I ran the faucet and sighed. I was having trouble swallowing, unable to move past Derek's/Matt's notion that nothing about me was unique.
Nothing was special. I was nothing special.
My eyes caught on my reflection in the dark window over the sink. I had blonde hair. My skin was beige. I was wearing my tan sweater dress.
I was struck by my monochromatic blandness. Did the inside reflect the outside?
4
Kiddon & Brun's TWSS system
A statistical machine learning algorithm to detect whether a sentence contains a "That's what she said" double entendre.
Source: Funniest Computer Ever Open Source Initiative
Several events over the next week transformed my melancholy into rage.
First of all, men were idiots. Let's just get that out of the way.
Second, I was propositioned by my building manager. He was married. With children.
Third, I'd neglected to deactivate my FindUrPartner account after the date from hell, so when I logged in five days later there were three new messages, all of them containing dick pics.
Scratch that.
All of them containing underwhelming dick pics. I mean, if you're going to send a woman a dick pic, at least send something worth seeing. Not a gherkin dwarfed by hairy potatoes.
And finally, my ex-who I hadn't spoken to in over a year-invited me to his engagement party.
His. Engagement. Party.
To. Another. Woman.
There I was, minding my own business, opening my mail while waiting for a conference call to start. I was at work, sitting at my desk. As a contract writer, I could work from home. I'd tried doing just that for a few years, but found the isolation to be counterproductive to my mental health.
Therefore, I'd joined an office co-op near the Loop a few years back. Basically, it's an office-like any other office environment-except most of us don't work together or even in the same field. We shared the same public space, used the same copy machine, the same break room, etc.
I liked the dynamics and environment of working in an office. Not only did it get me out of my pajamas, it gave me the opportunity to have normal discussions around a water cooler with other working professionals.
Glancing impassively at the envelope, because it had looked like any other envelope, I noticed my address had been handwritten. I didn't recognize the handwriting, nor had a return address been visible. Tearing into it serenely, I listened as others joined the call.
It took reading the invitation five times before I fully comprehended what it was. And by the time complete understanding settled in, my rage was out of control, especially since the party wasn't for another six months.
Who does that? Who sends an invite for a party that far in advance?
I focused on that minute and meaningless detail because the rest of my feelings felt too unwieldy to examine.
Unfortunately, it was also time for the call to start.
"Okay. Is everyone here?" Daniella, my editor, queried the line, forcing me to stem my decidedly unpleasant gush of emotions.
"Marie, Chicago," I said through gritted teeth when it was my turn, then muted my line just in case the urge to scream became uncontrollable.
You're Invited!
David Carter and Gwen Livingston cordially invite you to attend their engagement party on November 17th.
Please RSVP by August 17th with number of guests.
Will you be bringing a date? Yes ___ No ___
I flipped the card over and winced at the picture of David and his fiancée, my heart beating sluggishly for the span of several seconds.
"We need content for the tech issue, it's running thirty pages light. Anyone have a pitch?" Daniella tossed the question out to the group.
Meanwhile, I was still glaring at the picture of my ex and his fiancée. They were looking at each other, gazing into each other's eyes with blatant adoration, and they were so . . . so . . .
Happy.
Blar!
Tearing my eyes away, I glared at the writing on the envelope, the decidedly swirly cursive. It must've been hers. Who does that? Who invites her fiancée's ex-girlfriend to her engagement party?
"What about dildos, vibrators?" This question came from Terry Ruiz, field writer at the Los Angeles office. "We could do a compare and contrast of what's out there, latest technological advancements in the field."
"Give me something other than dildos and vibrators. Please. For the love of God," Daniella moaned. "I'm so tired of dildos."
"What about online dating?" Tommy Jang asked, his tone hesitant. He was relatively new to the Los Angeles office. I'd never met him in person, but we'd spoken over the phone a number of times. One-on-one he was hilarious. But he hadn't yet found his footing on the conference calls.