Metro Sexuals Don’t Do Spiders.

Traffic is running smoothly.  I have my YouVersion King James Version Bible on, reading aloud.  Because ye did not sanctify me…The story of Moses always confused me.  I could never tell which Lord was coming to speak to Moses and the people.  Was it Jesus as our Lord and Savior or Lord–Lord as in our Father Lord?  I enjoy listening to the Bible on my way to work.  It’s a 55 minute hike up the road so it helps me muddle through the fact that, each day, 55 minutes is the MINIMUM amount of time I will EVER spend on a one-way trip to work.  But, when the mothers at the church say be sure to spend 1 hour with Jesus everyday….I can quickly respond, “I give him a minimum of 55 minutes every day.  I’m sure He isn’t upset about missing the occasional fiver.”

I am so thankful to Rufus, my personal mechanic, for repairing my air condition.  I can attribute at least 7 of my 25 pounds lost to the lack of air in the dead-heat in South Georgia.  Rufus is a wonderful old man.  I should feel remotely guilty that he does all these miscellaneous favors for me in hopes of getting that one date (that I JUST so happen to cancel 2 hours the day of–EVERY day of.)  I heard that old people have worms and I’m allergic to seafood so, I have to stay away from their bait food.  I do owe him something, eventually.  After all, it’s because of him that my 2001 Corolla, or the Green Goblin, is still able to fight another day.  Sooner or later, I will either have to buy a new car or “throw Rufus a bone” (steak dinner bone, of course–his treat).

I finally pull up and park Goblin in the space marked “Executive Paralegal.”  The title “Executive” was only added after the incident in 2009 with Mr. Larry Howell, the Office Manager, silent partner and husband of Senior Partner, Shondra Howell, in which Larry Howell determined I was an “unnecessary expense.”  Let’s see.  I do all the correspondence, all the scheduling, all the personal planning, all the ordering, (including ordering HIS gifts) and I personally have his plastic surgeon on speed dial for the next wrinkle that appears. In 2009, the office memo referenced the laying off of staff to help alleviate added expenses.  I wasn’t concerned until I was the first, and only, called in and let go. Less than a week later, after Ms. Howell realized that, in scheduling, Mr. Howell instantly became her human LoJack, I was again, the first called in–but this time, I was Welcomed Back.  Amazing how I got a raise, an additional week of vacation, a personal parking spot and a title.  Not complaining at all.

I pick up my phone and press the “x” key on YouVersion to pause today’s Bible Study and, although I turn off the ignition, I still have to wait about 3 additional seconds for Green Goblin to stop rattling.  In pulls Attorney Smithson Keith in his 2014 Jet black Toyota Tundra King Cab. Smithson even went as far as putting monster wheels on his truck.   Now, what you would expect to get step out of this Monstrosity is a white, red neck, hick-bubba of a man.  Instead, with Beyonce’s Drunk in Love still blaring and sunglasses on, what appears and steps on the shiny chrome runners are custom-made vintage Kenneth Coles attached to stubby ankles on stubby feet dangling in mid-air.  The music stops and out slides 4′ worth of legs and 1′ 3″ of torso including head and hair. Smithson Keith is the latest partner added to the company.  After working here as an associate for the past 6 years, Keith finally made partner after his big $8.9 million dollar win over Clarke County when they refused to allow one of their highly decorated police officers access to the city hall dinner with his new Russian wife he met online.

Attorney Smithson Keith probably would have been more appealing as a man, if he wasn’t such a girl.  I think it’s the walk that he has that has a Beyonce bounce twinge to it.  Or, perhaps it’s the stomach that drooped in a depressing sag over his matching vintage Kenneth Cole belt that did the turnoff.  I’m not exactly sure what takes longer–him climbing into his truck or sucking in his stomach far enough and long enough for him to zip, button and belt his pants.  He looks nice today in his khaki Duckhead (didn’t know they even made those anymore) pants and pink Polo top.  My issue with Smithson is that he is so hell-bent on convincing everyone that he is the anti-gay, straight, but Metro-sexual male that he loops right around, smack-dab bulls-eye into A Flaming GAY. I really want to compliment him on his outfit, today, but I am in no mood for his head-to-toe Guess the Price game.  I mean, I could care less that he is wearing $120.00 pants that he found at Ross for less.  His pants look no different from the $12.00 pants I picked up for my dad last week at Wal-Mart.

Getting out of Green Goblin, I grab my purse that my mom continues to call a luggage bag, my black lunch bag with the pink script “D” on the front, my miscellaneous clear bag I got when I saw I could load things in it that I may need for later (like pencils, neosporin, bottled water, toothbrush or mini sewing kit), the gallon mug I got from the local fair in ’09 that now has all the decorations on it completely unrecognizable, my 32 oz. coffee cup that my mom swears is a mug and my cell phone draped in the camouflage Otterbox.  Meanwhile, all Mr. Smithson has in his hands are his keys and the “attitude of the day.”

“Good Morning, Girly.” He says.  I wonder why I always see music notes dangling around his words when he talks.  I wonder if it is because of all the Archie comics I read when I was younger, or is it because his hands are always directing an invisible choir when he speaks.  If Smithson was a singer, I’m sure he would be a second alto (if there even is a key).  He’s too high for a tenor, but too low for a pure alto.

“Good Morning, Keith!”  I am known as the excitement setter in the office.  I AM sunshine! So, no matter how much I abhor speaking to you, you will be none the wiser.  I started calling Smithson by his last name, Keith, because of my standing joke that his parents were dyslexic and rearranged his name wrong putting his first name last and his last name first.  So, six years ago, when he joined the company, I told him that I couldn’t find myself going along with the name conspiracy.

We walked through the doors of our historic, two-story, Tudor building.  We are located in the historic heart of Taliferro County, Georgia.  Our building is only allowed minimum renovation because it is protected.  The County did allow us to add central heat and air; however, on an extremely hot day, the entire building smells like mothballs.  My office is located upstairs, directly next to Ms. Howell’s.  Occasionally, she walks by just to peek in and look at me.  She doesn’t speak–just looks.  I suppose I bring her a level of comfort being that I always notice she is there, glance over at her, smile and continue about my work.  She says I am her best kept secret force within the office.  It is so rare to have a woman-to-woman, employer-employee relationship without friction and estrogen drama.  I walk down the hall into my office.  The office has hardwood floors, so every step is an announcement of who’s coming and who’s going.  Click! Click! Click! Even with my sandals on today, I’m still making a public notification of my arrival.  It wouldn’t be so bad if my office wasn’t located upstairs–or if they had carpet SOMEWHERE in here.

I finally trudge up and make it to my freshly painted eggshell office, which still wreaks of Sherwin Williams’ gloss lacquer.  My office, other than Ms. Howell’s, is the only office with a window. It was an added perk when they relocated me from downstairs to the “Executive” Suite.  Not such a perk.  Ms. Howell’s office has a walk-around patio that connects to my window.  Occasionally, I catch her lurking outside and leaning over the balcony, peering through my window.  I lift my hand, give her the bird and continue whatever brief I am typing at that moment.  She then comes out of her office door, look into my office and gives a witty smirk.

Ms. Howell isn’t here today.  Well, not yet, anyway.  She is in Court for a brief motion hearing and will be on her way.  As I am laying my purse on the counter, I notice a black wolf spider lurking on the corner of my desk.

“Spider! Spider! Spider!” I yell.  “Keith!  Spider!  Keith! I need you!”

Now, let me fill you in on me and spiders.  We have a love-hate relationship.  I have no love and nothing but hate for them.  And, every since one fell out the ceiling of my car, landing on my window causing me to venture into my passenger’s seat while driving until I manage to put the gear in park, exit the passenger’s side and run outside my car screaming until a total stranger came to my rescue and killed it, it is bleak that the relationship between me and spiders will ever change.  Sneaky little bastards!

Casually, and slowly, Keith walks up the stairs, down the hall and peers into my office.

“Yes?” Keith says in his Mr. Belvedere tone.

“Keith!  Kill the spider.”  I bellow back.

“What spider,” he says in a mocking tone.

As I look at Keith, I notice that only his freshly manicured hands are in my office–resting on the doorpost.  The rest of him, stubby torso, Kenneth Cole belt, shoes and all, is hidden somewhere, strategically placed outside my office.   As I continue screaming in an uproar, Mr. Howell, comes running up the stairs and straightway down the hall to my office to inspect the commotion.

“What the Hell?” he yells.  His voice is extremely soft, even when he is upset.  He has such a masculine, Matthew McConaughey southern drawl when he speaks.  As sexy as it was, I could care less.

“SpiiiiiiDEEERR!!!” I yell and point.  “The spider is on my desk, and Lady McKeith over here won’t be the man and kill it for me!”

Mr. Howell looks abruptly at Keith and asks in a father-knows best tone, “You know how she is, Smith.  Just kill the damn spider.” He looks a trite bit upset as he takes one long stride into my office and smash the precious little, innocent, 8-legged beast with his bare hand.

Rolling his eyes and walking away, Keith and his musical notes sing, “Better you than me, Larry.  I don’t do spiders. I’m too pretty for bugs.”

I guess metro sexuals don’t do spiders.