About 4 or 5 years ago, my friend bought a new house. As a housewarming party, we decided to do a “bar stocking cocktail party” to get in some good stuff for her future parties and entertaining. To make the party festive and, well, attended, Drea invited several of our co-workers, our cool co-workers. That kind of left her in a bit of bind, though… because she had a team of 6, including her, and 4 cool chicas around her. Then… there… was… Sybil. So if she invited the other 4 girls, she would have to invite Sybil, because that would be obvious. And she wanted all the other girls to come, so she did what any of us would have done:
“Please come, but, SHHHH, don’t tell anyone or talk about it. I don’t want Sybil to know…”
Well, naturally, one big girl named Veeta (yeah, I called her Velveeta), couldn’t keep her big, fat mouth shut, and Sybil got the word. Party at Drea’s! All is invited!! Except, you know, you. Soooo, in comes a little Catholic guilt and a paper throwing tantrum, and Sybil secured her invitation. We all doubted she would actually show, because who actually comes to a party when they have to use culpability to get the invite? Well, duh, Sybil. Didn’t I tell you she was socially retarded after all?
So it’s party time, excellent, and sho’ ‘nuff, in walks Sybil with a cute basket of bread and wine. The basket is tastefully done, very elegant, and thought out. I compliment her on the gift basket but I’m still tripping that she’s actually there. I corner her in the kitchen (not much of a corner, since most people don’t need to talk to her since she is talking mostly to herself), and I try to keep her out of overhearing us rude people say anything that would incite a CNN worthy story of a mass shooting of corks out of a machine gun at a cocktail party.
Sybil seems to like my attention so she opens up about having another party down the road (disbelieved), being 21 once and not remembering it because she was always too f*cked up (disbelieved), and having an 8 year relationship with a man that ended because they were just going in different directions (ok… this sounded interesting). I asked TONS of questions, and everything seemed like it made sense. She had an answer for everything.
Me: So what happened?
S: He just moved out. We just knew we’d run our course.
Me: So sad. Well, at least you were mature about it.
S: O yeah. He went to his mothers for a while, and then he got his own place.
Me: So where is he now?
S: You know, I don’t know. Married probably. We kind of lost touch. It was for the best, you know?
Me: Yeah, that makes sense. 8 years… wow. Why didn’t you ever get married?
S: I guess deep down we knew it wasn’t right. We knew we didn’t want kids, so why…
UGH. I was manipulated by a fantasy. Naturally, I have now known Sybil for 9 years, and never again was mystery man ever brought up. Though… she does remind us that she partied like a rock star at 21 and currently prefers pills to other drugs. I wonder who she stole that quote from. I don’t think I remember that being said on Ben Hur or The Ten Commandments… which is all I honestly picture her to watch… And hey! That’s generous. At least I think of her that much. O… and to dedicate a whole blog to her… but…moving on…
Anyway, so it’s Valentine’s Day this week. My team at work can’t help but reminisce of the flowers that arrived at her desk last year as well as the boisterous phone call we all “overheard” (were forced to hear). “O thank you SO much. I LOVE my flowers. They are SO pretty. Thank you for THINKING of ME!” It ain’t iambic pentameter, but it was still freakin foul.
Not to mention that sometime early in the day this VD, I was walking near Sybil’s desk, and she randomly busted out laughing and was shaking her head like she was about to go full blown convulsion. I didn’t want to die, so I didn’t stay around to investigate... or stare, which is what I really wanted to do.
So the joke continued: would she or would she not force us to eat another phone call and pretty flowers that we all suspected she may or may not have sent to herself?
Ah, yes, she sure did.
I came back from lunch, and on her desk were honestly some of the prettiest flowers she picked out on 1-800-Flowers.com. Although… this time, a phone call was remarkably absent. Another girl walked by and saw them, and came up to smell them.
Another Girl: [Sybil], these are so pretty.
Sybil: Thank you!
AG: Who sent them?
Sybil: A friend.
AG: Really? That was sweet.
Sybil: Thanks.
AG: What friend?
Sybil, now agitated: Wouldn’t you like to know?!
And not only was Another Girl slightly uncomfortable, but so were we. We had to shoo Another Girl off before I heard the sound of the assault rifle I know, I JUST KNOW, Sybil keeps in her desk.
The next day, the flowers were gone. I asked why she didn’t leave them, and she said she wanted to enjoy them at home instead of “this place.” I noticed an extreme agitation, and my life flashed before my eyes. Then she smiled and I breathed again.
Right then I wanted to send HER flowers. Then I imagined that some guy, somewhere, probably escaped the hidden dungeon in her basement. Or better, she handed him her cell phone and said, “It orders 1-800-Flowers or else it gets the hose again.” Poor guy. Then I laughed out loud to myself so hard that I had to grab a hold of a cube wall to keep my balance.
And I wondered who was suddenly running away from me…
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