Blink
A couple years ago, I heard about a school shooting.
At first, I think it barely registered. Disgusting as it is, it’s been becoming more and more commonplace in recent years and when the news first breaks, we sort of nod and mumble an ‘Oh dear’ and go about our days.
I’ve grown up in a generation where such things are simply a matter of course. The Columbine massacre happened in 1999, when I was a junior in high school. By no means the first, it was the one that brought it to the forefront of media and caught our attention. It didn’t begin there; from the University of Texas sniper in the sixties to Columbine, and through to the shooting just days ago at Henry Ford Community College in Michigan, school shootings have become the backdrop to our daily lives, top news stories for a few days and repeating headlines on CNN and we, the people, have gotten used to it.
I didn’t blink, when I first heard. When the text message came from a good friend that the school was in Virginia, it gave me pause. Not a huge state, I had friends scattered about in academia there, both working and attending classes. Even still, there are a lot of universities there. They could very well have been safe.
Karen was okay. I found that out quickly; she worked in a university, but she was safe. Then came another text message: it was Virginia Tech after all. That stopped me in my tracks.
I’ve known Lily for… god, I can’t even remember how long. We were just kids. Spending too much time on the internet, chattering about our favorite bands and thing that are crucial to fifteen year olds but later seem of such little consequence. At the end of the day, she was my friend – a dear friend, the baby sister I’d never had. Funny, and untouchably optimistic, the girl could draw a smile from me on even my worst day. In the small group of friends we had created, Lily was more than just one of the fold – she was the heart.
The idea of her being hurt, of perhaps even being gone… it was just too much for me to handle.
There’s this funny feeling I get in the pit of my stomach when I’m nervous. Like sitting at the top of the highest hill of a roller coaster, in those seconds before the big drop. But all the fun is gone; the roller coaster is broken, the breaks shot, the tracks busted and nothing but horror waiting at the bottom of the hill. It fluttered about all day.
So I texted. Just checking in. Got no response.
The day wore on; I was at work, shirking my duties by refreshing the CNN homepage every few seconds. I was lucky that I had a kind boss, who looked the other way when I would switch off my work console phone, obsessively checking my personal cell for messages and watching newsreels on the internet, chewing my nails down to bloody ends.
I was hundreds of miles away, in Chicago, and I had never felt more helpless in my life. There was nothing I could do but sit and wait and hope. A friend in Alabama was doing the same: waiting, and praying.
We texted. The messages grew more desperate.
Please just give us a heads up, let us know you’re okay.
It was late afternoon when the news finally came down, a message from Lily’s cousin came through and let us know: Lily was alive. Hurt, badly, and airlifted away, but alive.
It was strange, the relief I felt. She was badly hurt but knowing, just knowing that she was alive… the relief hit me like a ton of bricks.
I’m a severe asthmatic, so I wear my emotions not only on my face but in my lungs. I sank into my chair, puffing on an inhaler and sobbing in full view of the busy lobby in my work building. I didn’t care. Lily was alive, and that was all that mattered.
More news came. She’d been shot several times, once in her face, and the idea was something I couldn’t quite grasp. Lily is beautiful and the thought of that even being changed was something I just could not understand. It was too soon. We still had to wait and see.
I tried to tell my mother what had happened on the drive home, but I just cried. I couldn’t help it.
Days passed and we learned more. So many lives were lost that day. So many families forever changed. Our Lily survived it, our strong, beautiful Lily pressing forever forward. This girl, the little sister I never had, made me so proud, going back to very place where she had lost friends and her life had forever been changed, to walk across the stage and accept her diploma while still healing from her wounds.
Time went on and I grew angry – at myself, at everyone. All of us who don’t blink anymore, who barely raise a nod when the news comes on that such horrors had once again taken place. What is WRONG with us? What is wrong with ME? Why did it take nearly losing a dear friend for me to start caring again?
For ever incidence of gun violence – the ones that are headline news and top stories on CNN and the ones that don’t get mentioned and just pass us by without notice – there are families grieving. There are lives lost. There are people going through what I did, waiting and hoping and praying. But we forget, and we don’t care, because it doesn’t touch us.
How dare we ignore it! How dare we glance at a television screen and not care! These are lives, these are friends and sons and daughters, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, teachers, students, men, women, everyone. If we stop caring, we let it keep happening. No one should have to be afraid to go to school or go to work or walk down the street. Gun violence increases exponentially every day and we sit and we don’t blink, we allow it. It’s time to put an end to all of this.
As time passed and Lily took the time to heal, it was clear that the physical wounds would not be the only marks left upon her. Still so strong and so beautiful, Lily now fights so that others won’t know the pain and the loss she had to experience. The little sister I adopted so long ago isn’t just a little kid anymore – she is a role model, for me and for others, spurring us to get involved and take a stand against gun violence and lax gun laws and loopholes that put dangerous weapons into the hands of people who should not carry the power of life and death.
Here’s to you, Lily Habtu – my friend, and my hero. You didn’t deserve what you went through, but I will never be prouder than anyone else for the way you’ve bounced back and worked to put an end to the violence.
For more information and to get involved, check out these links:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Protest-Easy-Guns/18152484949
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Campaign-to-Close-the-Gun-Show-Loophole/52610644250
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=18109305653
http://www.protesteasyguns.com
http://www.studentsforgunfreeschools.org
http://www.bradycampaign.org
Don’t be like me. Don’t wait for something to happen that it becomes personal. MAKE IT personal. Stand up and say, ‘NO! This CANNOT – this WILL NOT – happen again!’
Angels Here On Earth
When I was 11, I saw my sister’s Guardian Angel.
It was late one night – probably past midnight, though the exact time has escaped my memory – and we were trying to maneuver our station wagon out of the parking lot of the local Taco Bell. We – we meaning me, my sister Marie* and my childhood friend Nina – had gone to the movies that night to see Interview With the Vampire for the third or fourth time, and finished up the evening in our traditional fashion with a late dinner at the pseudo-Mexican fast food joint.
The parking lot wasn’t full, but it wasn’t terribly easy to move a 1984-era station wagon in any sort of smooth maneuver, and it took only a moment for Marie to become stuck between an iron guardrail, a cement pole and the fencing alongside a house that backed up to the restaurant. She couldn’t move without hitting at least one of these obstacles, and for a teenager stuck alone late at night with two kids in tow, it was beyond frustrating. Marie was near tears when the Angel appeared.
The blinding headlights of a car that hadn’t been there moments before appeared, and a young-ish man stepped out and walked towards us. Even though it was late and he was a stranger, none of us felt any fear or ill will. The man was what I would have, at that age, described as ‘cute’: a short, attractive Hispanic man with a friendly smile, who knocked on Marie’s driver side window and offered to help. She nodded, sliding across the bench seat into the passenger side and sending me into the back with Nina. The man slipped inside the car and deftly maneuvered it out onto the side street, somehow managing to avoid every obstacle that had moments before left us stranded.
As quickly as he appeared, he was gone. Stepping away with a chorus of thanks following him, he got back into the car that we couldn’t really see, so blinded were we by the headlights, and disappeared just as easily as he had arrived. Awed, Marie quickly pointed out that she had heard no engine, and, as the street was one-way, there was really nowhere he could have driven to. Trite as the situation may seem, it was late on a weekend in the city of Chicago, and we had no idea what could have been waiting for us just around the corner, had we been stranded any longer. We came away certain that the man we had met was Marie’s Guardian Angel, and we all believe it to this very day.
Along with this unexpected brush with the supernatural or divine, I have learned over the years that there are different types of angels. There are the ones, like Marie’s, who appear in the hour of need as though heaven-sent, only to disappear without a trace and leave you wondering. Others are far less obvious; they are our friends, families, co-workers and acquaintances who step up at the moment we really need them and manage to save us from ourselves.
I have known my good friend Karen going on five years, though we have not yet met in person. From the beginning, I saw her as someone to respect and even emulate. Highly intelligent and a brilliant writer, she had been through a lot in her life and learned to roll with the punches, hard as it might have been to do. She’d struggled, that was true, but in the end she managed to hold her head high; she is the kind of person I would like to grow to be.
A year and a half or so ago, I had reached the lowest point of my adult life. I had grappled with some anxiety and depression over the years, but not to the degree that it hit me one early autumn. Each day passed in an agonizing crawl; all I wanted to do was go home and go to sleep, craving those hours of nothingness to wash away the constant fear, worry and sadness that held constant grip on my mind.
My family did not know how to react; this was something they had never experienced before. I am fairly certain my mother was terrified, watching me shuffle home from work, unable to eat or talk, simply to lay on the couch until it seemed late enough to crawl off to bed, only to start the same cycle the next day.
For all that my family worried, it was a hundred times worse on me. In the briefest moments of clarity, when I could drag myself out of the depressive fog I had sunken into, I feared for my sanity. The thoughts that ran through my mind of their own accord both frightened and worried me. I thought I was losing my mind and, as I ranted into an online journal, said as much. It was Karen who stepped up and gave me the peace I needed to start to heal.
Depression and anxiety aren’t all that uncommon these days, and Karen had been grappling with these horrors for years. Though we had not met in person and never even spoke on it in a one-on-one manner, it was the comments she left in my online journal that helped me seek the peace that I needed.
She made me realize that I wasn’t crazy, and that this was a disease that could be fought.
She made me see that there was nothing wrong with me that couldn’t be treated, and I didn’t have to be afraid.
For all of this, I realized that Karen is one of the two angels here on earth that helped save me from myself that fall.
Even as I accepted the idea of seeking medical attention for my problems, there was still one small nagging worry tugging at the back of my mind. Having been raised Catholic and long ago turned away from the faith of my childhood, the horrifying thought that there was nothing in the afterlife and that there was no God kept me up at night, the loudest in a chorus of terrifying What-If’s running through my mind.
At work – the place, it turned out, to be the biggest source of my problem – there was a cheerful woman named Dee who always seemed to be nearby with a smile just when you needed one. I knew her to be very vocally Christian, and though I had long ago given up any religious inclination, just being around her seemed to make me feel better.
I spoke with her a little more every day, each time feeling just a little bit better. There was something about her and the love of life and God with which she spoke that seemed to placate the part of me that was searching for answers. Though I don’t describe myself as a Christian to this day, I am content in my heart knowing there is something out there, and I can close my eyes to sleep at night without the rush of questions and What-If’s that used to torment me.
Between Karen and Dee, I was able to take back my mind, my health and eventually, my life. Though I’m not perfect, I can cope, and I know that I owe most of it to these two – my angels here on earth.
* Names have been changed to protect the anonymity of those involved.
Fat Girl’s Lament
So there’s this guy. For the sake of anonymity, we’ll call him Jay.
No, not THAT kinda guy. A friend. Someone I’d been acquainted with for several years but only recently started speaking to on a regular basis. He’s sweet and funny and I enjoy chatting with him on a purely platonic basis. Everything else aside – such as our rampant incompatibility – I may have some emotional baggage myself, but the boy has a luggage rack and it’s not something I feel I have the stability to take on.
Besides. He doesn’t like Shakespeare, which is a huge red flashing ‘No Way’ sign for the likes of an British Lit intensive English major like myself.
Anyway.
In one of our many amiable chats during the past few months, he made mention of a particularly horrifying come-on he had received from a young lady of, shall we say, expansive girth. He laughingly suggested that any attempt at a romantic tryst with the young lady would result in his pelvis being crushed to dust. Being a card-carrying member of the Fat Girls Club myself, I wasn’t too inclined to laugh along with him and was forced to remind him that I myself could qualify as a Jabba stand-in.
His backpedaling was immediate, but the blow fell even harder when he sputtered that I didn’t understand the nature of her fattitude, and that her horribly horrendous monstrous mass was so terribly bad that it was probably in the range of XXX pounds.
Wasn’t too well-chuffed to hear this, as my poundage is somewhere along the lines of XXX+25.
Like many of the fat girls out there today, I carry the weight of the world (and the weight of my weight) on my shoulders wherever I go. To look at some of us, you’d never guess the sheer degree of poundage. Some of us hide it well; I like to say I must have a very, very heavy brain. And with that heavy burden (pardon the pun), we also carry with us the fear of being wounded so suddenly, often by our very friends.
It’s not easy being the token Fat Girl in any crowd or group of friends. With a popular culture that loves to poke fun at the horizontally over-blessed, we often find ourselves laughing along with the crowd that is laughing at people just like us, and pretending to feel no pain or horror at the implications. We make fun of ourselves before anyone else can do it.
It’s harder still to try and shed the poundage we bemoan. Much as you might like to think, it’s not all overindulgence and sloth that lead us to the predicaments we find ourselves in. Some of us suffer from medical conditions: thyroid problems, glandular disorders, depression or just reliance upon life-saving pharmaceuticals whose wide array of side effects cause us to pack on the pounds. We grow up in households that teach us unhealthy eating habits; we work low-paying jobs that make it cheaper and easier to buy high calorie, high sodium and high fat foods instead of fresh fruit and veg. Next time you’re in a supermarket, take a look at the price differences between low-fat low-calorie name brand cereal and the bottom-of-the-shelf bagged cheap sugary brands; chances are you can get a month’s supply of the generic high-fat brands for the same price of a week’s supply of the healthier version. A week’s worth of completely unnatural gummy fruit snacks can cost less than half of the same supply of fresh apples.
And then comes the horror of addiction. Yes, that’s right, I said addiction. Studies have shown the same brain response in cocaine addicts when presented with a modicum of their drug of choice as is found in the obese when presented with a high fat snack. The difference here is that drug addicts and alcoholics, once past their addictions, can help resist their temptations by never indulging in even the slightest bit of their former habits ever again. For the food-addicted, that is a sheer impossibility: we need to eat to survive.
The leering of the populace is the worst part. The smirks received when a Fat Girl orders a low-fat meal in public or buys a diet soda. Honestly, if you were obese, would you really want to be seen in public tucking away a garden salad or swigging from a can of Slim-Fast? Every smirk and arched eyebrow reminds us what you’re really thinking: “Oh, look at the Fat Girl! It’ll take a helluva lot more of that Slim-Fast to get her skinny, and that’s if she stays on the wagon!”
Would you want to be the only Fat Girl in a sea of anorexic over-exercise Barbie doll wannabes on the treadmills at a gym? Imagine your flabby self clad in sweatpants and a t-shirt, sweat pouring down your face as you hope no one notices the way your ass jiggles on the Stairmaster, while some Skinny Bitch who had eaten all of a stick of celery and a Diet Coke all day shows off her flat, toned tummy to the gym staff as she works off the single calorie from the Tic-Tac she dared to eat the day before.
Don’t get me wrong. Not all Fat Girls hate their bodies, and not all Non-Fat Girls are Skinny Bitches. My own sister in law, a cute-as-a-button woman with an electric personality, has a bit of a tubby tum, and doesn’t give a damn. That kind of confidence is the envy of Fat Girls everywhere. And there are the thin-as-a-rail types who are just that way – one of my childhood friends, a walking toothpick, had earned the nickname Sandwich Amy, because at least once a day, some adult would comment, ‘Jesus Christ, give that kid sandwich!’. The truth is, Amy ate just as regularly as anyone else, sometimes even more so. I had personally been out to dinner with her an hour after she ate her dinner at home, and following up her second supper with an ice cream treat. She just metabolized better than the rest of us; it is still my dearest wish, however, that it catches up with her once she reaches middle-age. Some of us Fat Girls can be vindictive like that from time to time.
At the end of the day, it’s just a lot to cope with. Each time a Fat Girl loses a little weight and starts to feel comfortable in her own skin, something like the careless conversation from my friend Jay can strike a blow to the heart and send us spiraling back into the depression and self-hate we are constantly fighting against.
As for Jay himself, well… in the rational part of my mind, I know he didn’t mean it. And yet I am constantly self-conscious with him now, wondering if he’s worried I might slip and fall and smash him to death or some such horrible thing. As irrational as these thoughts are, they don’t go away. And as much as I enjoy my friendship with the guy, it’s always going to be there now, in the back of my mind.
Just another little perk of being the token Fat Girl.
Holy Crap! (Quite Literally)
As I mentioned once before, my dear friend and co-worker Dee* is in training to be a Christian minister. Since Pickering LLC** is a 24-hour company – meaning the building is open and the business is running all day, every day – the owners thought it prudent to provide spiritual services for customers and workers who found themselves regularly working through their usual Sabbath day. Some months ago, the usual Christian minister had retired, and in recent weeks, Dee stepped up to fill in.
The response from staff and clientele alike was unanimous: they loved her. In all honestly, it’s kind of hard not to. Even a tried and true cynic and agnostic like myself can’t help feeling a little touch of the joy that Dee feels when she is preaching her faith. As the service ended, those in attendance were asking Dee when she would be back with them again and complimenting her on her sermon. All in all, it was a smashing success.
Feeling the sort of joy that comes from fulfillment in one’s faith, Dee spoke with Ron, her supervisor, regarding an idea she’d had. Several members of Pickering staff share Dee’s faith, and seemed quite keen on the idea of gathering together once or twice a week in prayer. Knowing the sticky situation that religion in the workplace can create, Dee first checked with Ron to be sure that such a thing would be allowed. When he green-lighted it, Dee and a handful of others began meeting two mornings a week, before their schedule work hours and before they had clocked in, in her office to share a morning prayer.
It should be noted that while I agree totally with Dee’s right to do such a thing, I am not a member of the fold. My own faith has long been wishy-washy since I rejected my Catholic upbringing and my only real thoughts in terms of prayer are that it is a private thing. So while I didn’t join them, I was glad that Dee had found others that shared the joy she felt in her faith.
But, as always happens at Pickering, the other shoe had to drop.
You may recall my previous mention of Sally, an administrator who must always know everything and anything that is happening at Pickering, regardless of whether or not it’s any of her damn business. She is a consummate liar and backstabber, capable of doing anything at all to get her own way. And for some reason that no one has ever quite been able to understand, she has the company owners, brothers Mike and Eddie, firmly entrenched in her back pocket.
When Sally heard that Dee had been conducting the Christian services at Pickering, she must have hit the roof. After all, no one had asked her permission, let alone told her it was happening. And even though the arrangement of religious services at Pickering is not only not under Sally’s list of responsibilities or even based out of the department she presides over, she had to stick her nose in and cause trouble.
It came up during a management meeting. First, she questioned Dee’s qualifications to be doing such a thing. Never mind that Dee is mere months away from completing her ministry studies, or that Dee’s own pastor personally vouched for her capability to perform the service. Knowing all of this, Sally had the nerve to question it.
Then came the deathblow, sure to end Dee’s volunteering for the Christian service entirely. Sally questioned the legality of having an employee volunteering on her time off. Mike and Eddie quickly became alarmed; while generally kind and easy going, mention a matter of money or lawyers to the two and they immediately clam up. There could be problems, Sally slyly pointed out, with the labor board, and they might have to pay Dee overtime to allow her to continue.
Even though Dee wanted to volunteer.
Even though Dee never asked for any money.
Even though her only impetus, aside from spreading the faith she adores, was to earn hours towards her ministry degree.
And so came an end to Dee’s ministry at Pickering, even though the clientele adored her. But, of course, Sally couldn’t end it there. There was still the matter of Dee’s morning prayer meetings.
The details were never made entirely known to us, but the word was handed down by Rob that the morning prayer meetings must come to an end. Somehow, Sally had found a way to make Mark and Eddie overly concerned over such a thing, as though they might get sued by someone whose religion was not being represented.
Even though it was a private meeting of a group of friends with shared faith.
Even though it was done behind a closed office door – with said office being in the basement, at the end of a long corridor where no one but the Supply Manager and Dee herself ever ventured, so it’s not as though someone might stumble upon it and become offended.
Even though all those involved were not due to work at the time nor clocked in to work at the time.
Pickering is a diverse place, and we like it that way. People here come from all walks of life and still manage to work together towards the singular goal of keeping the company afloat. While not everyone are best buddies, there are those of us who form tight and lasting friendships among the staff, based on common interests and the like – and for some, common faith.
At the end of the day, the freedom of religious expression is being denied a select few. And for what? Because they had failed to inform Sally of their every thought and action? Or maybe it runs deeper than that.
As I had mentioned quietly to Dee one day, I truly believe Sally’s viewpoint on the situation would have been entirely different if Dee hadn’t been a protestant Christian. Sally herself is a supposedly devout Catholic – as devout one can be while being a sneaky, vindictive wench. Posted on the outside of Sally’s door is a full color photo of Pope John Paul II himself.
Which kinda makes me want to speak to Mark and Eddie. After all… as lapsed Catholic myself, just perhaps I find that photo to be disturbing and a little offensive.
* Names have been changed to preserve anonymity.
** Right, like I’m really going to tell you the actual name of my employer.
High School Never Ends, Part Two
My boss, Jenny*, is the epitome of awesome. Fiercely protective of her staff, she doesn’t allow people from other departments – and in this case, people working for the larger company of Pickering LLC** – to screw with them. So when the collective of lunchtime shrews tried to screw me over, Jenny stepped in to ensure that the damage done was negligible.
It started like this: Jenny called me up to her office for one of our usual chats regarding the new projects we had been working on, new hires and new responsibilities and the like. What I didn’t expect to hear was an indictment of my own honesty as an employee. Though Jenny made it clear that she didn’t believe the rumors and knew better than she was being told, she felt it necessary to warn me, and for that I am grateful.
It had come to her attention not so much as a warning but more of a ‘heads up’ from dear Abby in HR, the babbling sidekick of the Dark Mistress of the Business Office, Ellie. Abby came to clandestinely – so she claimed – warn Jenny of a complaint filed with her in the HR office that my lunchtime compadre Dee and I were, quote, “taking long lunches”. She came to warn Jenny as she had been “forced” – her word – to report this to an administrator: Sally, a vindictive two-faced wench who is not only Cece’s direct boss, but also the one person at Pickering who was most adamant about having total control over everyone and everything.
Jenny, sweetheart that she is, hit the roof. First, she noted to the conniving Abby, Sally is not my supervisor – Jenny herself is. On top of that, as I technically work for Pickering Associates and not Pickering LLC, Abby is not even my HR representative, so any issues with my performance should be reported to our own HR man, Frank. Third, and quite honestly my favorite part of the argument, Jenny pointed out that I am good at my job and she trusts me implicitly and does not believe for a moment I would be taking advantage of my lunch hour.
What a sweetheart, eh? Gotta love the lady.
Better yet, she proceeded to go to bat for Dee, who is not even in her employ. She pointed out quite adamantly that Dee works under a different administrator, Ron, so any problems with Dee’s performance should be brought to his attention and no one else’s.
Meekly, Abby tried to infer that Dee was leaving the building at odd hours throughout the day and not clocking out, and others had seen it. Jenny shot back that Dee’s position as the head of the business records department caused her to leave to go to an outside storage facility, where older records are kept, quite often, and that she also ran errands for Ron himself – a task that, as billable work hours, caused her to remain clocked in. Damn. Don’t I just have the best boss in the world?
Jenny reiterated to me, after telling this story, that she trusts me completely and knows that I wouldn’t do such a thing. She did, however, make sure to advise me to, quote, “watch my back”, because Pickering is full of catty, hateful bitches who seem to fill their days with naught more but causing trouble. I agreed to be careful, and off I went.
As I left her office, I thought back to that day’s lunch hour. Dee hadn’t been feeling well and chose to spend the hour in her office, trying to relax for a bit. Given that I had no inclination to enter the Snake Pit alone, I took my lunch at my desk. Strangely, however, as I was waiting to board the elevator, Abby walked past and cast me a small smile and a wave. Odd behavior, to be sure, but following my conversation with Jenny, it all made sense.
As we were leaving the building that day, I related the story of what had went on to Dee. Having not been told of the vindictive hijinks of the Lunchtime Shrews, Dee was immediately riled up. One thing that you should know about Dee is that she is what I affectionately describe as ‘very Jesussy’; a loud and proud Christian in training to be a minister, Dee’s heart is full of the sort of love you’d expect from a true spiritual leader, and she is by no means obnoxious about it. She’s not the type to condemn anyone and simply wants to share the joy she feels. That being said, upon hearing the catty behavior that had been targeting us, she was spitting nails.
“That ain’t nothin’ but the devil,” she told me, determined not to let it bother her. On top of that, she added, we would continue to take our lunches in the open meeting room, but we would sit at the far end of the table to make it clear to the Ladies of Lunchtime Lunacy that we wanted nothing to do with them. I found myself agreeing with the idea. After all, what better way to show them that they couldn’t take us down?
While I am sure there have been occasions where I lost track of the time and dallied over my allotted hour for lunch, I know that it is not a regular habit. On top of that, Dee herself needs to relieve someone else for lunch every day, so we have always watched the time very carefully, as not to let the other girl, Alicia, get shortchanged for her lunch hour. What is so ludicrous about the whole situation is that Cece herself is by far the worst extended lunch hour offender there is. With Dee and I arriving to our lunch at 12:15 or so each day, Cece is already present and accounted for. When Dee and I leave at about 1:10 or 1:15, Cece is still there, already gone well over an hour. So who are they to throw stones?
As we mulled over the four suspects, Dee and I both came to the same conclusion: the mole had to be Ellie. Abby had refused to tell Jenny who had been tattling – or, really, making up stories – on the basis that as an HR professional she was bound to secrecy, but Dee and I knew it had to be one of the remaining three. Betty didn’t seem to care very much and Cece would be in danger herself if the tables were turned, leaving only Ellie, the self-styled Queen Bee. And honestly, what a bitch!
There comes a point when petty differences need to stop. This lie was not just putting Dee and I in hot water, but threatening our very livelihood. Were it proven that Dee was leaving the building for personal reasons but not punching out, she could be fired. In today’s economic climate, the disaster of such an incident would grow exponentially. So why take a petty disagreement and twist it into a web of lies that could be so damaging? There’s a point when stupid disagreements need to stop – lest Dee and I choose to reciprocate.
And boy do we have some dirt on those bitches.
This post has been brought to you by a can of Starbucks Doubleshot Energy + Coffee.
* Names have been changed to protect the writer from the shrewish lunch club.
** Right, like I’m really going to tell you the actual name of my employer.
High School Never Ends, Part One
The high school I attended was fairly decent. I think part of it had to do with it being a same-sex facility; in the absence of the male of the species, young women seem to lose a little bit of their impetus to compete. Still, girls can be catty when they want to be and there were a few less than happy moments back in the day, but overall I can look back on those days with fondness and hold no ill will towards my classmates. Junior high was an entirely different situation – but that’s a story for another day.
In spite of my general ambivalence towards my high school days, I do recall a good number of incidents, spurred by some inane idea like popularity or loyalty to supposed friends, that stand out as moments of abject cruelty. This, however, is to be expected, and is a perfect example of a well known but little publicized fact: little girls are little bitches. Everyone knows it. We remember the horrid things we did to one another and what we suffered at each others’ hands, and though we don’t talk about it, we know its there. The one thing that many of us refuse to acknowledge, though, is that this catty competitive antagonism extends far beyond our formative years and often surfaces in the most stressful of situations: in the workplace.
It is only recently that I realized the seemingly kind and benevolent group of late-middle-aged ladies that populate my office are not quite as they seem. No, this supposedly kindly gaggle of grandmas are truly the most venomous, hateful and manipulative swarm of vicious little shrews I have ever encountered. Strange how a single incident can open your eyes and make you see that the competitiveness and the baseless cruelty that marked our high school years extends not only into our golden years but into the source of our very livelihood – the workplace.
It all started with something as simple as lunch. At the office, there are two rooms that employees may use for lunch. The first is considered the actual lunchroom, a tiny, cramped, hot space packed with vending machines and a scant three tables for employees to eat upon. Always overcrowded and usually without a spare seat to be found, it’s not the most inviting of places. The second option, I would later find out, is even less inviting.
Just down the hall from the official ‘lunchroom’ is a large empty meeting room with a long row of tables and plenty of chairs. Cooler than the lunchroom and far quieter, it remains mostly empty during the lunch hour due to the four reigning Queens of Mean who have made it their lunchtime habitat.
The first of the group is Abby*. Seemingly sweet, the Human Resources manager is a grandmother with an infectious laugh and a kind face seeming more like a friendly Jim Henson creation than anything else. The Muppet look-a-like seems trustworthy, until you realize that she is firmly lodged up the ass of the tyrant of a Business Manager, Ellie.
Ellie looks far from kind. Her nasally voice is always complaining about something or other and the mole on her nose sprouts long hairs that wave in the breeze of the vapid bitchery spewing from her lips. She is the ringleader of her little group and seems to relish the position.
Next is Betty, the Intake Director. A tall, hulking figure, she makes no step towards diminishing her massive presence and instead speaks in loud, vulgar tones, at times effecting the offensive speech patterns of either a toddler or a mentally challenged person for comedic effect. Known to be hot-tempered, foul-mouthed and a little too grabby with her assistants, Betty is one half of an obnoxious duo within the lunchtime quartet. Her partner in crime is Cece.
Cece is the biggest snake in the grass here at Pickering LLC**. She is chatty and cheerful, but is always gathering information to be used against you. She seems to know a little bit about everyone and has no problem telling you what she thinks of them. But if you dare to agree – or express any opinion whatsoever – she will file it away to use against you at some future point, or just let it slip to someone else in order to cause trouble. Assistant to an executive here at Pickering, Cece doesn’t seem to actually DO all that much. It’s rare to see her actually working.
During the lunch hour, Cece and Betty seem to revert to kindergarteners, throwing food and wrappers at each other. In one notable incident, Cece smashed a cracker down Betty’s shirt. Obviously not at all shy, Betty proceeded to flash the crowd as she lifted her blouse and shook out cracker crumbs. Sitting directly across from her, Abby of HR didn’t seem to find a thing wrong with this display – she just sat there laughing.
For the most part, this motley crew has had the empty meeting room all to themselves during the lunch hour. The only ones who dare encroach on their territory was a manager from the second floor, Sandy and Kate, from Clinical, on the same floor. They usually don’t arrive till well after one, when the others were beginning to clear out.
The trouble really began some months ago when I received a promotion of sorts and began working for our company-within-a-company, Pickering Associates***. My daily duties and schedule changed dramatically, leaving me open to have lunch with a good friend who works in company records, Dee. Not fond of the cramped and overheated lunchroom, Dee usually ate in her office, but when I became available to join her on her lunch hour, she suggested we go to the meeting room instead.
Big mistake, apparently.
In the meeting room itself, the Four Evil Musketeers were nothing if not cordial, though they did on occasion devolve into fits of hushed whispering with a few pointed glances, making it clear that they were either talking about Dee and me or at the least about something we weren’t meant to know. Fine. We could deal with that. They want to act like children, that’s fine for them. We don’t have to sink to that level and we don’t get involved, so everything will stay cool, right? Wrong.
The aggression from Ellie, the self-fashioned Queen Bitch, was almost immediate. Case in point: One afternoon, before heading down to lunch myself, I stood at the front desk speaking with my old friend and supervisor, Rosie. The front desk is placed just behind a set of stairs leading into the lower level offices, and up Ellie came marching, stopping directly next to me but on a lower stair.
“Hi Ellie, did you need something?” I asked, in nothing but a cordial tone.
“Yeah I need you to move,” she snapped back.
Surprised, I took a quick couple steps to the right, allowing Ellie room to step up. She did, spoke briefly to Rosie and then left.
Apparently, it was imperative that I move, rather than her walk one quick step around me. Interesting, no?
Only days later, I was sitting in the lobby during a break, fiddling with my Blackberry and idly chatting with Rosie. With little to no reception on the upper floors, the front lobby is the only place where I can get a strong enough signal to do anything with it at all. Again, Ellie marched up the stairs for one reason or another and seemed altogether scandalized by my presence. In subsequent days, whenever I took a break in the lobby, I earned glares and frowns of disapproval?
What was this all about, then? Well, just a few weeks later, it would all come to a head…
To Be Continued.
This post has been brought to you by a can of Starbucks Doubleshot Energy + Coffee and a Snickers bar: the breakfast of the overworked and rushed.
* Names have been changed to protect the writer from the shrewish lunch club.
** Right, like I’m really going to tell you the actual name of my employer.
*** See above.
