Well, hello there! Rebecca from LosingIt here, guest posting for Leeeeessssahhhh, who is trying to avoid her Blackberry while on vacay, aka she’s doesn’t love you enough to take the time out of her super relaxing days to lower herself to write something for you salivating, blog-reading hyenas (don’t get pissed at me, I’m just telling you what she said).
Today’s post is about someone who I can’t stand, so much so that my blood roils just thinking about her. No, I’m not talking about worthless female bloggers (rhymes with Shmelissa Shmee Shmorris) who are married to their grandfathers and can only write about their ugly, expensive possessions and ugly, wisp of a “dog,” because they have to do SOMETHING since their grandfather’s wrinkly, dried-up, ancient balls ceased to function eons ago and can provide her absolutely no pleasure (guess that’s why she has to stock up on Jif and loves her dog so much…). No, I’m talking about the timesheet troll at work.
Let me just say: As much venom as I spew here on teh internets, I really am a pretty easy-going person; my blog is just my passive-aggressive way of dealing with my inner, evil emotions. In real life, for the most past, I’m polite, friendly and cheerful with people I don’t know.
Ok, to back to the Troll. It all started when I got to work one morning (it was like my 3rd week of working at this job). It was around 6:30, I was still trying to shake off the previous night’s Vicodin, and I was jonesing for a giant chai latte to perk my ass right up. I got into the parking garage elevator to head downstairs and sank back against the wall as the doors closed. Just as they were about to shut, a very hairy, small arm shot through the crack.
“Oh shit, a furry, European child!” was my first thought, as I dived for the Door Open button and frantically pressed it, hoping the force of the doors hadn’t mangled their limbs beyond repair. The doors started to open and I breathed a sigh of relief. As the doors pulled back, I peered through the widening space to ask the furry, European child if they were all right. As I started to speak, the doors opened all the way and the words died in my throat as they changed into a giant gasp.
Before me stood a midget. No, not like someone who’s short and you teasingly call a midget. We’re talking honest-to-God, we-represent-the-lollipop-guild midget. It scared the crap out of me, because I was expecting a little kid, and was met with a small adult (c’mon, it was early morning and “suddenly seeing midgets” just isn’t on my list of palatable morning events). However, it wasn’t only the stature that startled me, it was also the appearance. I am in no way a blushing beauty, but she was, um, one of the most unique-looking midgets I have ever seen (no, really: she looked like someone hacked the tiny conjoined twin off the head of the big conjoined twin from TLC, plus a mustache, unibrow, snaggle teeth and the most body hair I’ve ever seen on one woman).
Now, again, remember: I am not a mean person in real life, ONLY ON THE BLOG. I wanly smiled, she grimaced (smiled?) and said, “Did I scare you?” I snapped out of it and stuttered, “Uh, yeah, just a little,” and held up my thumb and pointer finger and squeezed them together, making the “little” hand sign. And then, in my head, I motherfucking panicked. I thought, “OH SHIT, I SAID LITTLE AND SHE’S LITTLE!!! OH MY GOD SHE’S GOING TO THINK I’M A RACIST OR A BIGOT OR WHATEVER IT IS WHEN YOU MAKE SAY SMALL OR LITTLE OR TINY IN FRONT OF SOMEONE WHO’S A MIDGET!!!” And then, I did the worst thing I could possibly ever do: I listened to the crazy voice in my head, got super nervous and unwittingly giggled. I COULDN’T HELP IT, IT’S A DEFENSE MECHANISM.
Her unibrow narrowed, and I thought, “Oh good, now she thinks I’m making fun of her,” and she stomped into the elevator as I turned bright maroon. It was the worst 30 seconds of my life, riding in an elevator with a pissed-off midget (who was making weird, growly, snorting noises), while I was trying to choke back the ever-increasing giggles that were threatening to escape at any moment. Thankfully, we reached the ground floor with no incidents, and I quickly strode off the instant the doors opened. I walked as fast as I could, practically running inside the building and heading for the elevators. As I stood there, praying the elevators would hurry the fuck up, I heard a sort of snuffling behind me. I slowly turned around, and there stood my new BFF, Midge (yes, she got nicknamed during those tense 30 seconds in the elevator). Shit. The doors opened and I sighed, going inside and hitting my floor button. She got in, too. And didn’t hit a button. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck me, she works at the same company I do!!! We reached our floor, and we got off and headed to opposite sides of the office. “Have a great day!” I chirped, trying to make peace. She turned around. “YOU TOO!” she practically spit out, and huffed around the corner.
Since then, the Timesheet Troll (as I now affectionately call her) has been
making me pay for that goddamn day by making me batshit crazy. She is
CONSTANTLY changing my times, docking my minutes and “accidentally” taking away
my PTO. My boss has had to talk with her more than once about the shit that she’s
pulling, but to no avail. Midge will leave little passive-aggressive tick marks
next to my name on the timesheet if I forget to sign in, she’ll get here EARLY
to make sure that I’m ACTUALLY HERE at 6:30 and not just padding my times
(swear to God. She’s fucking nuts), and if she happens to get here a little
late, she’ll RUN to my cubicle and then casually stroll past, surreptitiously
looking over her shoulder to make sure that I’m really in there. I would call it harassment if she didn’t
look so goddamn adorable, running on those stubby, little legs and swinging her
stubby, little arms.
Recent Comments