ARGH! Or “Whatcha readin’?” while I’m obviously very much engrossed in doing just that activity. The answer I WANT to give is always “A book.” What I usually do is just flash them the front cover. Which inevitably leads to “What’s it about?” To which I WANT to answer, “Read it yourself!” But which I either ignore or give a very, VERY short and condensed synopsis.
I’M FREAKIN’ READING! LEAVE ME ALONE!
Oooh, more of that dirty talk, you sexy heraldic b— uhh… hey, how’s it going?
I just answer “Cheap paperback, nothing important.” Seems to work.
Wrong. So very, very wrong.
There’s a difference between asking “Whatcha doin’?” and getting grabby. It’s the difference between telling a woman that her skirt is pretty and putting your hands all over it. And then telling her that she brought it on herself.
There’s a woman I work with who has absolutely no sense of boundaries. I made the grave mistake a few years back of mentioning that I had a girlfriend. She made a habit of constantly asking “So, when are you going to marry her?” “So when are you going to make an honest woman of her?” “So did you propose to her this weekend?” She couldn’t take the subtle hints that it was not a matter up for public discussion. And the more clues I dropped, the more she’d needle me. It pushed my buttons and she took that as an invitation to press even harder. I finally dropped the big clue when I said “You know, has it ever occurred to you that maybe it’s none of your fucking business?” She responded with “Wow, why are you so touchy today?” She was genuinely offended.
And yet, she continued. One day she asked again and I told her that we’d broken up the week before. She got this look on her face that said she’d pried to deeply. She was genuiniely sorry. That was sweet! bittersweet
Problem solved, though. She got transferred out of this department. Then she got transferred back in, this time as my boss. Now she can pester me all she wants and I can no longer tell her to fuck off.
Lynn, I may soon need your juror services.
My preferred long-term strategy, given that I tend overwhelmingly to deeply philosophical sci-fi or similarly arbitrary stuff (re-reading Haldeman’s Forever Peace at the moment :D), is to give them a long, detailed summary of the plot and major themes.
The average person asks what I’m reading exactly once. So far the only person it HASN’T worked on (despite repeated applications) is my mom, but mom nosyness is an entirely different animal.
Yo dawg I herd you like duct tape so I put some duct tape on your window so you screeeee about your broken window while you screeeee when you rip off duct tape!
If, when Mom dies, she still has the same cleaning lady she has now, firing her will be such an enormous pleasure.
She’s one of those people who feel the need to clean first and foremost, and dusting those spots she normally doesn’t even see, the room where someone else is. Preferably someone who’s trying to concentrate. I’ve had to kick her out of “the office room” during a call from an agent.
Right now we have a 4K-pieces puzzle set up in the living room. I’m considering dipping 4K bits of Mucha work into acid and feeding them to her next time she walks in there (after having officially finished with that room, I wait for her to be “done” before going into the room I want to use) and starts rearranging the pieces I’m working with…
The nosiness is unending. If my office mate is not at her desk, everyone asks all kinds of questions why she is out (I can only assume they’re doing the same to her when I’m out).
Jeebus crow, folks, maybe she’s at DUI court or having a colonoscopy or recovering from a wicked hangover or getting her hair done or having a fight with her husband or any number of other things that are none of your damn business. She’s not here and will be back (fill in the blank).
Go away now.
If I’m out for a day, I get interrogated as to my whereabouts and details of the day previous. For fuck’s sake I was out sick, how much do you need to know? Do you really want to hear about my explosive diarrhea or huge menstrual clots or abcessed tooth? I’m pretty sure not, just cut out the insincere concern bullshit and go about your business.
I agree with you that there is a difference between complimenting a woman’s skirt, and assaulting her. No matter how a person is dressed, there is no reason for assault.
But we’re not dealing with incubus here, or his skirt. We’re dealing with his little plastic toys–his things. People (for the most part) generally realize you don’t touch other people, because you would highly offend them. However, they’re obviously more comfortable handling little plastic Orcs and Tau, because after all, it’s just a little plastic thing. How many times has someone come into your office and picked up a picture on your desk to look at who it was? Or grabbed and shaken that little Magic 8-ball for a quick answer?
Incubus has inadvertently baited inconsiderate, “sci-fi ignorant” peoples’ curiosity with strange little objects. Of course they’re going to grab them. The only remedy I see is to remove the bait from the proverbial shark-infested waters.
Tripler
Yes, I know incubus isn’t wearing a skirt in this instance.
He should be. Regimental style.
One of those times when you had the doors taken apart, why didn’t you just disconnect the wires to the window buttons?
People can be so moronic.
I was wondering why the switch wasn’t disconnected after the first time too.
I’m not sure why you think it’s a typo (unless I’m being wooshed). One of the primary meanings of riffle is to rapidly flick through papers.
When I was a small child, I was taught not to touch other people’s stuff unless invited. This included toys. Unless someone specifically hands someone else an item, personal stuff is NOT to be touched.
It’s really not a hard concept to grasp, though apparently some people feel quite comfortable picking up someone’s stuff and getting fingerprints all over it, or possibly damaging a fragile item. It’s a question of boundary issues.
One of my podiatrist’s assistants is an owl collector, as am I. She has a variety of owls arranged along the window opening to the front desk. I do not pick them up and handle them. They belong to someone else. In that same front window, there’s a candy basket. I do sometimes take a piece of candy from it. It is obviously there as a courtesy to the patients. It’s usually not terribly hard to figure out what is someone’s personal stuff and refrain from handling it.
Incubus needs to keep a wooden spoon handy, and smack people’s hands with it when they start reaching for his stuff.
Sounds like you need a transfer out of the department yourself. Or tell her that you prefer to keep your job and private life separate. I don’t think that just telling her is gonna do the trick.
Exactly. People playing with stuff on my desk, for instance, is not something I would consider within the bounds of polite behavior. If you insist on doing it and end up losing a hand, hey, not my problem. It’s not quite as egregious as taking something off of someone’s dinner plate unasked, but it’s close.
If you’ve got something in a public space, people are going to treat it like public property. Most people who bring toys and stuff to work do so because they want people to pay attention to them.
I couldn’t disagree with you more. Bringing an object to a public space does not make it community property. Keep that in mind the next time you take your purse out of your home.
A couple of weeks ago I brought my guitar to a public park to play. I didn’t do that to get attention, I did it because the weather was awesome and I didn’t want to be indoors. And if someone tried to grab it from me, I would have kicked their ass.
And I would have dropped a couple of dollars in your case for the entertainment.
If someone takes something off of your dinner plate, I feel it is time to use your fork, if you don’t have a steak knife available, to stab their hand. Rudeness should receive rudeness, and preferably a disincentive to repeat the unwanted behavior.
Now I am quite likely to SHARE something, if I’m asked, but don’t just grab. This goes for anything from what I’m eating to things in my purse.