Cubicle RANT!!!!!!!!

I am losing my mind. I am going to freak out. I have visions of leaping over my particleboard wall here at Large Co. and strangling the woman who sits in the cube next to me because she is SATAN in acid-washed jeans.

She munches pretzels all day long. She talks on the phone with the worst gol-durn Hoosier slack-jawed accent that I am ready to scream for earwigs to crawl into my head and sever my auditory canals. Here is a typical phone call based on one of her six jobs as assistant coach of junior-4H rural volleyball, level one (during which time, may I snottily point out, she is NOT working at her actual job):

"Ah mean for the love a Pete. I ain't doin' it. I ain't. I tole her two times awready. And she don't wanna mess with me, I mean ta tell ya, hunh hunh hunh. She got them girls out there and they ain't allowed to set with y'all? (to her worker buddy) Hey sister! Ya wanna go down t' the deli and get me some sweet tea? I got to have mah sweet tea, Mickey D's, every mornin', 99 cent. I mean that ain't bad and it's goooood sweet tea, too, anyway, I git over thar and (to the caller) -- WHAT'N THE HELL D'I TELL YA? THEY WAS OVAIR on the bench and they wouldn't let 'em sell their dang sodas. Ah mean ah run the concession stand too and we ain't makin' no dang money on it, neither..."

A month ago I was privileged to listen to a full-on description, at Wagnerian volume, of her breast-reduction surgery. "Ah mean ah come home and my 17-year-old said Goldang, Ma, you look like a dang teenager! Hunh hunh hunh, aw no, my husband don't care, he ain't gonna touch 'em fer awhile anyway, see these scars run all up 'n down mah underneath part but Ah tell ya I'm in suh much pain Ah can hardly set up....Ah ain't eatin' onions on that sandwich again, Ah'm tellin' ya I had so dang much gas Ah had belly cramps all night and a course Ah cain't sleep on my stomach cause mah breasts are still so sore -- see where they cut around mah nipple the nerves is comin' back and Ah git the tingles so bad, I mean for the love a Pete...."

The entire surrounding cubicle dwellers now know more than we EVER wanted to know about the particulars of breast-reduction surgery, including the types of stitches used, the number of incisions, the lengths of the scars and how they accidentally left a piece of dissolvable catgut under her left armpit and the minimum number of pounds typically taken off your tits if you want insurance to pay for it.

When she's not talking she's chewing. Like a fucking cow on its third cud. She talks with her mouth full. She burps out loud, slurps her dang sweet tea, groans when she gets up, and all but scratches her balls while she rips open another bag of Girl Scout cookies. The only time she doesn't chew, talk, burp, or root around for more chips is when she's "working" and she turns up her iPod to blasting volume to listen to the same fucking country song I first heard her play TEN MONTHS AGO JESUS HELP MEEEEEEEEEE.........

Am I completely off base here? Is the world now entirely populated with ball-scratching, cud-chewing goldurn office workers, like some Hee-Haw version of Dilbert?

I get the impression that she thinks I'm some sort of icy snob, because I don't join in the fun and talk about my eating habits, my preference in soft drinks, or my most recent gynecological exam. I also don't coach anything (unless it's how to look fabulous in stilettos, which is a skill I think every woman should have instead of how to change the propane in your heating system in your acid-washed jeans and Wal-Mart polyester fleece!) Ahem.

Whew. I brought my iPod today, and I think we're just gonna have a face-off. Pavarotti at ten paces.