Boose vs. Not-Boose

Today was a funny day at work. A funny, Boosey day. I’d got used to Mr. Boose, is the thing—settled into his Booseness. Found my own Boosey rhythm. But two projects kicked off today, one Boose-infested, the other Boose-free, and the contrast was stark.

The Boose project arrived first, crammed with rambling Boose notes. I read them, re-read them and went back to my brief. Mr. Boose hadn’t read the brief, or hadn’t found it to his liking. I couldn’t tell which. He’d poked holes, not so much in my work as in its underpinnings, a framework provided by our project manager. It was like…if our boss arranged an outing, a picnic by the sea, and I wrote to set up a carpool—

hey, Boose. What’s up? Need a lift to the shore?

………………….ehhhhhh, idk. it’s muddy down there. too many gulls. seaweed. crabs. this whole seaside lark, I’m not sure it works for me. we could go by the lake, though. you fish?

—and I was like, what? It’s not muddy by the lake? And isn’t this a work jaunt? Shouldn’t we check, if we’re heading off-road?

The non-Boose project was like—

hey, not-Boose. What’s up? Need a lift to the shore?

you bet! 🙂 But it’s muddy. Bring galoshes.

The non-Boose project got off without a hitch. The Boose project, we circled a while, then he peeled out without me. Sped off with the map’s how I’d put it—he’s at the lake by now. I’m at the office, snarled up on Google Maps, no clue where I’m going, which lake he even meant—what the fuck, Mr. Boose? What the actual fucking fuck?

It’ll all come together, I suppose. There’s still Boose’s boss. The Booseboss will step in. I’ll hitch a lift with the Booseboss, and won’t that be fun? I hate all these awkward-type situations. I could say to the Booseboss, “I’d’ve been fine with the shore,” but that might sound finky, like I’m selling out the Boose. I can’t do that, clearly, but if I like the lake too much, if I…fish with enthusiasm…that makes me a shitter. Crapping on the boss’s plan.

Why, Mr. Boose? Why must you do these things? You and your fog machine, blinding us with your Boose-fog…who the fuck are you, Boose? Who sent you? Is this purgatory?

Mr. Boose goes to potlucks and brings ambrosia salad.
Mr. Boose adjusts the thermostat in other people’s homes.
Mr. Boose parks funny, not quite illegally, but in a weird spot so you can’t fit another car, and your dad has to park all the way round the back.
Mr. Boose puts the milk first, then the cereal, then more milk. WTF?
Mr. Boose RSVPs to weddings and asks if there’s a vegan option when it says chicken or fish, and you have to call and tell him it really is chicken or fish, but that seems rude, so you’ve no choice but to add a vegan option and re-invite all four hundred guests, and most of them don’t double-RSVP, so you’re not sure what they want. You order fifty extra vegan meals, which ALL end up in your freezer, courtesy of Mr. Boose.
Mr. Boose.
Mr. Boose.
Mr. Boose.


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