Ammunition for Cupid Part 2

Something funny happened at work weeks ago.  Photographers for the University come around from time to time looking for good department pictures for the companies intranet.  They want those smiley people that look way too happy about their job.

Most of the women don't want their picture taken because they know it will go on the Intranet and they might look horrible.  I don't like taking pictures much but recently I've come to tolerate it a little more willingly.  I've never shied too much from a camera.  I might stare at it rather awkwardly but I'm not one to hide behind someone else and act ridiculous about it.

Honestly, if you're THAT insecure, just wear a paper bag over your head 24/7 because everyone was looking at you off and on hours before the camera came out and you were fine with it.  You must have a phobia.

So the one dark headed guy is watching me off and on and then asks for a picture of me pulling a chart.  I pose.  I smile.  *flash* *flash*  *flashflash* *flashflashflash*.  He turned me and continued.  *flash* *flash*  *flashflash* *flashflashflash*.

I began to feel like a red-carpet model.  *flash* *flash*  *flashflash* *flashflashflash*.  And then a show-pooch or something.  It got a little uncomfortable.  *flash* *flash*  *flashflash* *flashflashflash*.

The two co-workers who were fairly antagonistic against me ever since I was inducted into the department began laughing.  They thought it was hilarious that I, not even a true employee, but a temporary worker, had been chosen and photographed for the Intranet.  I felt a bit like Cinderella on a pedestal.  *flash* *flash*  *flashflash* *flashflashflash*.

And then right when I thought he was done- he thanked me and went back to the other side of the room to convince the other two women to have their pictures taken- he begins studying me again, and comes back a minute later:  "Hey, sorry, can I get one more shot of you doing something else."

In a moment, there I was again.  *flash* *flash*  *flashflash* *flashflashflash*. *flash* *flash*  *flashflash* *flashflashflash*.  Wondering if I had some sort of unique photogenic face.  I never had anybody mention any such quality in me before.  *flash* *flash*  *flashflash* *flashflashflash*.

And finally, the torture was over and I sat pondering if I would ever allow anyone to photograph me again.
Maybe I should proceed to go about with a paper bag over my head, so as not to distract other drivers.  It could be dangerous.

But Valentines Day will sweep by me without any disturbances to my ego and self-image.
After all, if I had someone to spoil, it would be EVERY day.



Your  
DarkGirlladehli


Yahoo mail generated a random Valentine for me.  I thought it was so gaggy...I would share it.

Dear sugar cookie,

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. Your style is more memorable than the Grand Canyon. You are simply luminous; a god among men. I feel tingly and giddy at the mention of your lovely name. 

Yours and yours alone,
Yahoo Mail

Ammunition for Cupid

So as February rolls in I find myself facing another Valentine's day in which I don't have a significant other.

Uhm- answer, NOYB.  Okay, that's a joke.
The answer is clear.  I give Cupid too much ammunition.

Actually, I think it's pretty dumb- seriously?  One day in which we force men to feel OBLIGATED to do something sweet?  A day in which our money is suckered from us for that over-priced teddy-bear holding a red heart?  Dumb.  I'm too practical for Valentine's Day.

Also, the candy is GROSS.  G. R. O. S. S.  Gross.  I like dark chocolate though.  *hint* *hint*  Anything organic over 65% will do.  And no roses.  I like Tiger Lilies.

But about giving Cupid his ammunition.  The day sparks some pretty funny memories from my past.  All of my...romancers.

I don't know how to flirt.  Honest to goodness-- it feels awkward and if I picture myself doing it-- I feel sappy, dumb, and ...awkward.

I did have my share of courters in school though though.  They offered me candy their mothers had bought and begged me to be their girlfriend.  It didn't swell my head any.  They didn't understand.  I was taught against inter-racial marriages.

So a while back we stopped in Walmart for some "milk".  Dad found a shortage and called the rest of us into the store.  I went browsing the cabinet trying to find the right gauge milk, a crowd of men all around eyeballing the casings.  Then the clerk comes by with the cabinet key and unlocks it.

I notice his ears flushing, his neck.  Strange.
"What kind do you want?"  He asks.
"22." I replied.  "Yellow top."
Pause.  "...Are you 18?"  He wouldn't look at me directly but he was coloring more and more.
"I'm...21."  I returned with raised eyebrows.
He turned with the armful and went back to the counter to disperse the goods.
I got in line.
An older man was checking everyone out.  When it was my turn to be checked out he turned it over to Corey.  By now, Corey looked like a faun, his skin almost crimson against his black hair.  He fidgeted nervously with the register drawer.

I kept my eyes down, scared that if I watched his behavior too closely he'd fall over and pass out from blood-pressure issues.  I was kind of nervous myself, wearing only a T-shirt with my hair in a braid revealing my ugly flat head and flat face.  Somebody's gonna love these flat cheekbones someday.

After ringing the milk up he asked, "Can I see your ID?"
I balked.  Sure, I'm way over 18 but... that thing has my phone number, my address, my weight...everything!!
I procured it.  He seemed to take way too long to look at it.

And then, shaking nervously, he slid the noisy bag of milk across the counter and I turned with my family and left.  Got a little teasing from mother in the parking lot- as if I hadn't been aware the entire time.  Typical Milk Man.  Went back to see Corey a couple weeks ago, but there were clean out of "milk".



Your
Bonnie