1. I had a job working road construction along with two boys I had unrequited crushes on and their wives.
2. One was anxious to talk to me because he felt he broke my heart (he did) when his wife told me this, I screeched “It was twenty years ago” (it was) and “I’m over it” (I am).
3. The other one couldn’t believe I was being paid $75 an hour to paint stripes on the road.
4. I was super judgmental about shabbily painted roads and faded road stripes.
5. Which was weird because the job was just a cover for the fact that I was a superhero.
6. My superpower was creating deadly icicles out of thin air and then using them as weapons. Sometimes I made ice cages and shit like that. I was like Zan, the not-cool, WonderTwin.
7. My unnamed, unseen arch-nemesis killed my miltary-man husband with an icicle on our first anniversary and stuffed his body, upright in our hall closet.
8. I relived the moment of finding him and holding his falling body in my arms whenever I went home.

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But it was a big group and we had a coworker we particularly didn’t like. We’ve all had them. This particular coworker was short and kind of squat. She had the yellowy hair you get when you use peroxide to go blonde instead of something classy like Nice & Easy. She was fond of stirrup pants, smoking, and making other people feel bad about themselves. Even though our job was to take orders for software, she would often take her calls to, well, the next level. Or some level. I’m not even sure what that level would be called. This coworker would often get gifts from the people she took calls from. And not nice thank yous or anything like that, people who called to order software would send her flowers or Victoria’s Secret gift cards. No lie. This happened more than once.

I’m not sure what kind of customer service you have to deliver to get that kind of stuff. I do know that I didn’t deliver that kind of service because no customer ever sent me anything. I’m okay with that.

All these things weren’t even the worst thing about her. The worst thing about her is that she liked to smoke. A lot. Which is fine and dandy, but when she would walk to the back of the building where the smokers went she would whistle. Yes, whistle. And she’d always whistle “Yellow Submarine.” She was a loud whistler, and no matter where you were in the office you could hear her. Without fail you’d find yourself singing “Yellow Submarine” within minutes of her passing by. It was awful.

Right around now, I wish I still worked with her. This way I could con one of the tech doofs to rig up her computer so that whenever she moved her mouse the “Give me back that Filet O’Fish” jingle would pour from her speakers. And if there is any justice in this world, she spends most of March with that fucking jingle stuck in her head. If there’s any truth about energy and juju and vibes and what not, every time that song gets stuck in my head I send it zinging through the universe to her, wherever she might be now.

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It would have been grand.

Now I’ve decided that my new superpower would be to look into the heart and soul of men and see what kind of lover they’d be. And not just lover in the physical sense, but in the emotional sense too. To see if they are emotionally-retarded numbskulls or if they are semi-sane regular men. Then, I could use my powers for good and warn all my girl friends away from the numbskulls.

I’d be the best superhero ever.

And if I could have a second superpower I would gain the power to WiFi Bill Wither’s “Lovely Day” onto Kathleen Turner Overdrive, because I can’t seem to stop singing it over and over and over again in my head (it was not, incidentally, the Post-it Note Morning song, that was Rock the Casbah).

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amazing, huh?

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