Our new office building exists on the boundary between the hospital proper, the campus if you will, and the barrio. It's cool and the gang as there's really not much happening during daylight hours that doesn't happen all around our great city, although last week around supper time we saw a hooker leave a bar and go into some guy's apartment. That's always so instructional for the kids.
Anyhoo, yesterday at lunch some co-workers were discussing their bravery in actually leaving the "campus" and going down the street, into, not away from, the barrio to a fried chicken joint. And some person of darker than peach coloration made a comment to Blondie McWhitegirl, my co-worker, who had to tell us all about it over lunch. Whatev.
But then they had to start talking about who was shot one street over or what other terrible crime goes on in my city. And, because I can't SHUT UP, I decided to mention a terrible murder recently in suburbia. Four teenage boys beat an Indian man(East, not Native) to death in front of his wife and kids. You know, just to point out that bad things happen to and of good white folks who don't live in cities.
We discussed for several minutes when the new person, who happens to be quite white, herself, says, "Well, don't you think he must have done something to provoke them?"
Up to know I had come to think of this person as a really sweet individual: she's soft-spoken, professional, tastefully dressed. "Why would those boys do something like that? Don't you think they must have been provoked?" I try for a split second to think, well, she has teenage boys, maybe she's trying to make sense of it all, and I can't. Because she looks at me again and says, "He must have provoked them somehow. Dontcha think?" Dontcha, huh? Dontcha just think that those poor, brave white boys must have been just pushed over the edge by some random, maybe some dirty remark by that, man, that foreigner. That dirty camel jockey, that sand monkey. I mean, wholesome white boys don't just KILL people. For no reason. Why if they did that they might also rape unconscious girls at parties and do drugs and kill small animals. So, don't you think it just might be possible that that dirty, filthy, ignorant, job-stealing, curry breathing, towel-headed wop had it comin'? Dontcha?
Cause that's what I hear, as I give you my best concerned but neutral social worker face and go "Erm". And try and figure out how tanned and permed I'd have to be to pass as someone from say, Guyana.
Friday, August 6, 2010
We have friends who have an open marriage. And we don't really care. I mean, go bang a thousand people in one weekend. Whatever trips your trigger. Whatever floats your boat. Whatever polishes your knocker. Whate...you get the idea.
We like them. Really. They share a lot of the same attachment parenting values that we have. Which is nice. And you can have an intelligent conversation with them about stuff: politics, music, food and wine, I don't know what all, but you can really talk to them and it's not all "So, how 'bout those Jets?" or "Nice weather we're having."
The problem, for us, is that they, especially the husband, manages to bring up sex into every conversation we ever have. And as we see them more and more, the conversation grows more, um, detailed. As in, how many hours a week he masturbates, or the shape of his wife's pudenda. And I think because husband and I are pretty tolerant and try to pass for hip, we let it slide. But I really DON'T want to know how or when he masturbates, or what lube he uses, or what porn he watches when he does it. And yes they want to sleep with us. And we told them, thanks but no thanks.
After a while it's not even uncomfortable, just tiresome. I like to flirt, but I feel like I have to be on every time we're together, to watch what I say, to monitor my responses. Was that a normal response, or will he think I'm coming on to him? It makes me twitchy. Seriously, this guy has (or says he has) so much sex that I'm tired just thinking about it. When does he work? Or have time for anything? And that's my point. I'm tired. At this point I don't care if he was talking about the Jets, Jesus or Jackrabbits, it's become tiresome. I guess we'll have to talk about it. Or perhaps I can come up with some equally annoying topic every time he brings up sex-I'm thinking Jesus again.