Mean Yet Justified

There is a woman who works in my current place of employment who is single handedly driving me to drink. I’ll admit, I’m halfway there to begin with, but the crazy bitch is giving me a severe push in the direction of the wet bar. I’d say this woman is doing it deliberately but sadly, I know her too well and I know that alas, this is her actual personality.

She’s a nice lady, don’t get me wrong. She’s helpful, she’s friendly, she’s reliable, she’s professional, she’s………..so boring I want to grab her by the throat and bang her serene, humorless little head off the nearest wall.

I know it sounds mean but I truly believe that mean is my vocation. She's the kind of lady who could not look more conservative if the God of Conservatism himself gave her a makeover. Bear in mind, we have no dress code, I live in jeans and Doc Martens and this chick just...she chooses to wear fitted office pants and blouses, that's all I'm saying. That right there should be a marker the FBI look for when profiling serial killers.

Let me give you an example of my frustration at this woman:

She arranges a trip for some executives she works with. One of my bosses is also going on the trip and I am taking care of his side of the plans. This woman has to call me several times in the day to coordinate - to tell me that “this is the location of the meeting, this is the time it begins, this is what we are doing with cars, when is your guy arriving?” and other relevant need-to-know things that benefit us both. I have zero problem with this. What I have the problem with is, she will call me to, say, give me a confirmation number for a car service and it will take her ten minutes to tell me because before she imparts the information I actually need, she will tell me: Every. Damn. Little. Tiny. Morsel. Of. Information. I. Do. Not. Need. To. Know. About. The. Trip. In. Excruciating. Detail. What all her people are doing, each of their flight plans, who is staying where and why they chose that hotel, blah blah blah blah, until I just want to hang up and slam the drawer on my head repeatedly till I pass out.

Seeing her name on my caller ID makes me tear up. I can't let her go to voice mail because then she leaves a ten minute voice mail that I daren't delete because somewhere, in the body of the message, there will be a morsel of relevant information that I really need.

Hey chick. I don’t need to know the problems you are having with your neighbors. About your illnesses. About the myriad of things your cats over the years have done. About what your boss has for lunch each day and why. About your new filing system. About the time you worked late despite being sick and no one bothered to thank you. Shut up! Shut up and die.