I do not claim to be a computer whiz.  Like at all.  I have a basic understanding…and a good friend in Google.  Oh the things you can learn by typing things into that magic little box!  (P.S. Don’t type in “saucy” for images.  Apparently my version of the definition is different than Google’s.)

Preface 2:

Mr. Bossman is well traveled.  His favorite destination is grand ‘ole Paree.  He loves to expound on it’s virtues, wax eloquent about his many trips, and randomly drop French phrases and stare at me as if I suddenly learned to speak French in the past 3 minutes.

Preface 3:

A friend of mine recently introduced me to Keren Ann who is amazing and who sings partially in French.  So naturally I assumed that my boss might like her.

Preface 4:

My boss is hopelessly confused by technology.  He refuses to text because “it takes too long”.  He brags about how he can make playlists in iTunes. (Yes, and you are ambulatory too.  Everyone applaud!) And I have to show him how to copy and paste at least once a week.

The Story: (you can image where this is going I’m sure)

I hand the CD to my boss and explain (briefly) who Keren Ann is.  I verify yes, Keren Ann, not Karen Akers.  I then think to tell him.

V: “Oh, and you can’t play it in your CD player.  It has mp3 files on it.”

B:  “Well, then, how do I listen to it?”

Clearly he’s puzzled by my rapid fire explanation of an mp3 file.

V: “Just download it to your iTunes and listen to it on your computer.”

(Sighing mentally. Because I know, of course, this isn’t going to go well)

B:  “What’s iTunes?”

I stop and just stare at him for a second trying to wrap my brain around the question.

V:”Umm.  You know the program you use to put music on your iPod?”

His face relaxes at the recognition of a word.

V:  “Well, just open your iTunes, put the CD in and it should ask you if you want to download it to you iTunes”

(sidenote: the man uses the term “download” for everything.  If he prints a document he says he’s “downloading” it.  I’ve stopped trying to correct him.)

B:  Staring at his computer screen.  “Do I have iTunes on here?”

V: I sigh.  “Yes.”  (I had just opened it last week to explain to him how he could change the order of songs in an album.  He had put a new novel in his iTunes at home and the chapters were backwards)  I point at the icon on his screen.  His first double click fails to be quick enough.  “Here.  Let me do it.”  A few clicks later, my teeth clenched, the melodious sounds of a woman’s voice filters through his speakers.

I exit the room to him gleefully translating her French titles into English.

My boss?

A dirty old man?

A wealth of information?

Quick wit?

A kind heart?

Bossman is the guy I work for (obviously)…and of an advanced age.  This past Friday he had outpatient surgery.  Apparently the weekend (and this morning) was rough so he took a substantial amount of pain killers.

Ah, what a peaceful Monday morning.  No tutorials in the mysteries of the new confounding world of technology.  No patient retrievals of objects misplaced.  No long reminders of information and tactful corrections.  Bliss, pure bliss.

Then the pain killers wore off.  The haze faded…and the mouth regained motion.

B: “Do you have more shit on your face?”

V:  “More what?  Oh, yes, I’m wearing more eyeshadow than usual.”

B:  “I guess I could have phrased it better.”

V:  “What, than shit?  What could be more complimentary than that?”

B:  “So what’s with the new look?  Hot date tonight?” (Bossman is always prodding for details of my social life.)

V: “Nope.  Just seemed like a morning for makeup” (i.e., I wasn’t running late.  But I don’t see that bit of information being useful here.)

B: “Is that new hair too?  Highlights?”

V: “Yeeesss…”(I look at him as if he’s grown another head)

B:  “Shocked you didn’t I?  I notice everything.  Drives my wife nuts. ” (I’ve met her.  She’s a saint.)

I nod my head.  My fingers clicking over the keys.  Bossman successfully pulls the file and heads back to his office.

B: “Hey, here’s your song!” (Bossman and I share a mutual love of jazz)

I perk up my ears, waiting for soothing strains.  Instead I hear the nasal, twangy strains as a country singer warbles “we should get drunk and screw”.  I sigh.  Sitting mutely at my desk, resisting the urge to take the bait, I wonder how long I’d do in the slammer if they ever found I switched his powdered creamer for ground up vocodin.