I turn my laptop on at 8:30 and I’m on facebook by 8:35. I need to check in and see who had a better weekend than I did. It looks like everyone did, except that one chick posting instagram pictures of her parents when they were our age. No one gives a shit. I do the mandatory scan for promiscuous pictures, any relationship changes, and a quick check on the exes, it looks nothing too big over the weekend. Might be time for some coffee to get back to reality. I run into the first work bystander on my way to the flavia machine
“How was your weekend?”
Fuck your weekend. How many people can ask you that while the shitty coffee machine is spitting brown colored water into a recycled cup. I’m still working on an adequate response. But I’m usually a fan of the ‘too short!’ followed by about 10 seconds of fake douche laughing and clinching my asshole because I just relieved myself of my own manhood.
The only way you can get into more trouble is by asking about their weekend. Most people give the mandatory ‘okay’ which is fine. This keeps the conversation short and to the point. I might even be able to catch wolf blitzer bitching about the weather in Iran from the TV five feet away. The problem arises with any additional conversation follow up –
“Well my kids had a soccer tournament…”
What kind of self respecting 22 year old who’s still yearning for kegs and 18 year old sirority girls is focused on some 8 year olds wearing shin pads. This is the perfect example of two people not being on the same page. One of us is clearly at another phase of their life, so let’s just agree to put a muffler on the end of the conversation. Let’s put it this way, this executive wouldn’t be too pleased if I told them I spent Friday night at the rub and tug on fourth street would they? So why should vice versa be appropriate.
“The weather was crappy”
If you think this is your in to tell me about how you stayed in and read books the whole weekend, I don’t give a shit. Librarians are quiet for a reason, no one brags about that. Two more quick follow ups, don’t recommend me any books unless they can be stored and read in the bathroom, and don’t tell me how you think ryan Reynolds was fantastic in whatever B- movie you saw this weekend. It’s not that I have a problem with books or movies, I’m just not a fan of the PC idea of sharing weekends as a superficial norm every Monday.
If you want to tell me that you stayed in with three girlfriends and went at it for 48 hours because the weather was crappy, I’ll put the coffee on hold.
“I was working the whole weekend”
Don’t do this. No one needs any of this. You may be doing it to make yourself feel better. You may be doing it to make me feel like shit, but no matter what, neither of us need this. We do this for 80 hours a week already, the fact that you’ve now taken what window of time we have to NOT talk about it, and talked about it, is slightly worse than having a leprechaun headbutt me in the balls.
“I went to my parents house for the weekend”
I’d rather get a papercut on my o-ring than have this conversation
“It was low key”
This is the one answer you can say at the workplace that everyone understands is the opposite of what you want to say. ‘Low key’ in weekend jargon at the workplace can mean anything from riding a rollercoaster with your tits hanging out to sitting by the fire wondering what I’m going to get asked at the coffee machine on Monday. It’s a coverall, and it’s genius. Never prod at it, and if you do, you’re breaking the unspoken code of the low key response. It’s essentially the don’t ask don’t tell rule.
But for one second I think about my weekend. Waking up at 2pm Sunday, ordering Chinese food, trying to figure out if general tsao exists, all while dominating his chicken. More facebook perusing until about six o’clock when I realize that work anxiety is setting in.
Maybe work anxiety settles in because I’m worried about how I’m going to respond to Lashondra at the coffee machine tomorrow at 9am. My weekend felt more like a 4 hour window of consciousness where there was too much talking, too much drinking, and not enough sex. If there was sex, is was very forgettable, I’m assuming for both parties..
It’s 9 AM and I’m debating pouring my coffee right on my lap and trying to collect some workers comp. How could I possibly go about a normal day’s business with over one hundred degrees of flavia coffee marinating into my chinos, through my boxers, and finally scathing my coin purse. Send that to HR and have them sign off on it. Just as I’m debating following through with my bullet proof plan, the first two sips of flavia hit me and it’s time to unleash a pre-noon blast on one of the local sanitary establishments throughout the building.