By staff writer David Nelson
November 11, 2007
When the PIC staff first decided to embark upon this little “Day in the Life” project, I was concerned. I know I often represent myself in my columns as a millionaire, jet-setting super-spy who spends his days flitting among a personal harem of Wonder Woman clones. But the truth of the matter is, my days are often kind of boring.
But by some fluke, we decided to use Friday, November 9 as the focal point. The comedy gods are indeed kind, because although that Friday started out like any ordinary day, it ended up with me in the sack with what I thought was an ex-girlfriend. Given the state of my life lately, the odds of picking this kind of day were astronomical. I might just as soon be writing about how I was struck by lightning as my winning lottery numbers were announced.
I work as an editor/proofreader for a newswire company, and my shift begins fucking early. I have to wake up at 6:30 in the morning in order to be on time. Because of winter, and something to do with time zones, it’s still very dark when I wake up. When you drink as much as I do, you can never be quite sure if you’re running late, or if it’s still the night before. And I don’t have a clock, because I’m protesting the unfair treatment of Flava Flav by the rest of Public Enemy.
“She thought I was angry at her; I wasn’t. I thought she wasn’t into sex; she was.”
On the Friday in question, I managed to drag myself into work on time, and relatively presentable. It was “Casual Day,” which certainly helped to explain why I didn’t bother to shave or change underwear. Casual Day seems like quite a privilege, but I can’t help but feel that’s what we workers are getting instead of, say, a raise. Letting a bunch of office monkeys wear denim doesn’t cost management a dime. I say to make Casual Day truly casual, employees should be offered their recreational drug of choice.
I don’t want to just skip over this part of my day, but it’s not easy to make this kind of job interesting or funny. I could tell you about the great dangling participle I noticed, but let’s not insult grammar by trying to squeeze comedy out of it. Besides, I’m sure you’ll be more interested in other dangling things I caught that day.
Speaking of which, there was something at work that amused me. Someone had left a teabag on my desk. And now that the word “teabag” has been given a new, testicle-related context, it’s great fun to push the envelope by talking about literal teabags and watching office people squirm. Observe:
Me: So, someone gave me a teabag last night.
Office Neighbor: (spit take) What?
Me: Yes, right on my desk. (holds up packet of Earl Grey) See?
Office Neighbor: Oh, ha ha. (laughs nervously) I get it.
Me: (loudly) Would you like me to give you a teabag?
And so on. It’s not especially funny, but I do find it amazing that a ball-sack double entendre was the most notable thing that happened to me at work all day. Oh, and I almost forgot. One of the team leads brought snacks for everybody! And believe me, many of my coworkers deserved a jelly donut.
After I got home, I took a brief nap. This is a habit I picked up from my ex-girlfriend, although, as a native of Argentina, she calls it a “siesta.” Also, she says “gaucho” when she means “cowboy,” and “Diego Maradona” when she means “Barry Bonds.” Nevertheless, she’s a gorgeous girl; way hotter than I have any right to expect. She broke it off with me a few weeks ago, and that’s why I was so surprised when her phone call awakened me from my slumber.
It was time to perform the dreaded “stuff-exchange.” It’s a ritual that’s been around as long as there has been dating and/or property. I had one of her DVDs; she had one of my books. I left a pair of shoes at her house; she wanted back all of the panties I stole. You get the idea. In truth, I could give a fuck about my stuff; I was just looking forward to seeing her again.
We met in the lobby of my building. We looked into each other’s eyes, and before we even said a word, we were making out. Swear to God. I can only hope my neighbors were watching on the closed circuit lobby channel and cheering for me. Truly, it was a moment right out of a movie. An Adam Sandler train wreck, granted, but that’s still pretty good.
We settled down long enough to talk it out. From what I could piece together with the flow of blood temporarily diverted from my brain, the whole breakup was just a misunderstanding that kind of escalated. She thought I was angry at her; I wasn’t. I thought she wasn’t into sex; she was. With this cleared up, we happily pushed the reset button on the Nintendo game of our relationship.
Fast-forward through dinner and some more talking, and I’m at her place. There are some times when a girl needs cajoling, and reassurance, and foreplay, and possibly roofies. Then there are those times when you’re completely, totally on the same page, and that page features two very naked bodies doing things that would make baby Jesus cry.
We didn’t even waste time undressing; our clothes somehow evaporated, unable to withstand the fiery heat of Latino passion (provided solely by her; Jewish passion tends to be a little less fervent and focuses more on the prospect of a post-coital sandwich).
They say make-up sex is the best kind. Up until Friday, I never believed it. That’s probably because I’d never had a serious fight with a girlfriend that left an opening for reconciliation. I’ve dated a lot of basketcases, including a few with clinical OCD. Trust me, arguments about washing each hand exactly four times do not set your libido on fire. But Friday was truly unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
It’s now Saturday, November 10. I’m writing this article at my once-again-girlfriend’s place, while she studies for an exam. I’m still underpaid and underappreciated at work, but at least I have the thought of her to get me through the day.
P.S. Normally, this is not the kind of thing I'd be inclined to write about. It's not that I'm really sensitive about privacy (in fact, stay tuned for an article in which I test various laxatives, with hilarious results), it's just that other writers here at PIC have just about cornered the market on amazing sex stories. If you dig that stuff, go find writers whose names rhyme with Tate LePfaff, and Mick Daudio. In fact, you can read about their Friday the 9ths, along with the rest of the PIC Staff, right here: www.pointsincase.com/get-to-know-pic.htm