The HR lady/office manager despises me for absolutely no reason, a fact which does not sit well with me.
I am disgusted by the large number of grins I display per chat with Tanya. Rarely perplexed by my own behavior, my desire to please her is a mystery. Mrs. Flowers, late thirties, refuses to verbalize her hatred, but there's no doubt that my simple presence makes her cringe.
Irrational fear a weakness, I worry that, the morning after making her a target, Tanya will be at my office door, accompanied by a burly security guard, ready to declare, "I know what you did and it spells the end of your career. Don't bother submitting your resume to another entity or a single career placement agency. Every viable employer in a three state radius is on my speed dial and I plan to warn them all."
Cruel edge notwithstanding, Tanya has short blonde hair that bounces cheerfully when she walks. I'm not sure if one attempts to achieve locks capable of displaying emotion, or if they're a product of genetics. Either way, I happen to find such strands off-putting. In the washroom, her designer spectacles are described as "kicky." In concert with her sub-peeper freckle clusters, Tanya's bright mop gives the illusion that she was born a decade later than her birth certificate states.
Though new hires and temps are advised her bad side is not a desirable place to reside, Tanya is usually rather pleasant while conversing. She constantly prattles on about her beloved cello. She passes out flyers detailing recital specifics as a desperate fourth-grader promotes a birthday party after being convinced by both parents that the turnout will be surprisingly massive. Of course the parents of the fictitious pupil then phone the mom or dad of every kid on the classroom roster and beg for the presence of their offspring. It sickens me that the one after-hours company related event I attended was a cello recital. Not only was my appearance a pathetic stab at turning around a relationship I care nothing about, but I can no longer sit through a song from Michael Jackson's best-selling album Thriller without being reminded that the ditty wasn't written in hopes it would eventually be amateurishly reproduced on a bowed string instrument. If I ever contemplate switching careers, the dismantling of that vile instrument will be my swan song.
It's a pleasure reading emails sent to Tanya Flowers from her husband, a portly man who adamantly opposes the consumption of drugs and alcohol. He turned his wife onto the cello, and, though he does not require her to abide by his puritanical lifestyle, repeatedly reminds her electronically of the toll her partying ways takes on their two boys.
From: John Flowers
To: Tanya Flowers
Subject: Beer Bottle
Sent: Friday, November 12, 2010 10:51 AM
I found your empty beer bottle at the TOP of the trash this morning. I moved it to the receptacle in the padlocked basement per our decade old agreement.
I know my demands are rigid, but, as I affirmed BEFORE we exchanged nuptials, my kids won't be tucked in by a parent who reeks of booze. To people abstaining from libation, the aroma is far from pleasing and it's vital the memories of our children be positive, and more importantly, innocent.
I adore you more than you'll ever know.
That is a finely crafted email indeed; no way a first draft! Perhaps a thesaurus was even consulted.
Possibly Tanya hates me because, on some level, she understands that I am cognizant of the running feud between her and Mr. Flowers, and that I side with her husband. They had a verbal prenup after all. If you're not going to abide by a set of rules, why agree?
Or maybe she is jealous of the friendship I maintain with her underling . . .