Tonight, my husband asked, “So, did you make out with the janitor today?”

I’m experiencing a career low point.

The contract gig that I’ve been working for 2 months has not delivered as promised. Instead of writing, I’m being groomed to do business process analysis. You know who doesn’t give 2 shits about business process analysis? This guy.

And instead of being a business process analyst, I’m being treated like a glorified admin. You know, that admin who isn’t too bright? The one who cannot be trusted to make copies correctly?

Yeah.

I’ve got people arguing with me when I point out their text is grammatically incorrect. Clearly, I am not to be trusted.

Let us be honest: I am a decent communicator, whether that communication be print, online, verbal … or a combination of Spanish and pantomime.

That last one isn’t on my resume anywhere. But I guess it should be. If you ever doubted my abilities, let me just tell you: Today, I discussed infertility with my Spanish-speaking maintenance guy pal.

Yes.

I had a random hallway run-in with Maintenance Mercury, my Freddie Mercury look-alike amigo. He showed me pictures of his family on his phone. He positively gushed about his 2 sons and young daughter. Then he asked me if I have kids. Then he asked me why not.

First, I tried to explain in my faltering Spanish that I’ve only been married a year. In my fluster, I may have fallen back into my high school vocabulary and mentioned hay muchos libros en la biblioteca.

Maintenance Mercury showed me more pictures, then asked me again.

Somewhere in there, I realized that he is 1 of only a handful of authentic people to be found at Globotron, and I like him a lot. And I decided to just let it all hang out.

“No es possible,” I said. Then, I did what I can only assume is the international sign for “barren” - waving my arms in front of my crotchal region while shaking my head.

Then, Maintenance Mercury looked sad, and asked me if we’d considered adoption.

About this time, I realized that I was talking about my ladyparts, in fake-ass Spanish, with a near stranger, standing next to a busy elevator bank in some random office building. Yeah!

Then, I drew a chart tracking my hormone levels. OK, not quite. Instead, I realized that I never thought to ask my high school Spanish teacher the Spanish word for “infertile.” Some things you just can’t predict.