The Devil Wears Shoulder Pads

About three weeks ago, I got an email asking for a story submission about a time "you knew you had to quit your job".   Well, I could not type fast enough.   But after uncovering the fine print (requiring I provide a photo, my name and the company name), I was out.  If my story was published with that level of detail, the person I am about to describe would somehow find out.  And she'd surely kill me.  And probably all of you for (kind of) knowing me.
 
But since I hate wasting a good story.....

"People are crying" is how I described our office environment to my boss.  Poor guy went on unexpected medical leave only a few weeks after my arrival and I tried to be sympathetic. After all, he did bring me there with a level of positivity that few people ever have about a job.  And I actually do like him (oddly enough I work for him again now).  But I was at the end of a very short ledge and, unless I left, I'd surely make the news for doing something drastic.  If I recall correctly, one of my dearest friends gave him a friendly "FUCK YOU" when they met at my wedding. It was hard on everyone.

My torture at this mid-sized Insurance Company lasted 6 long months.  In his absence, I was left in the death grip of a woman who had the chemical makeup of a serial killer. Allow me to paint a quick picture for you - she was a terrorist disguised as an early 90s daytime soap opera star.  Even if someone is brilliant, it's hard to take them seriously with shoulder pads sewn into every one of their outfits. She wore bright red lipstick and was that scary pale only a woman with poison flowing through her veins could be.

So yeah, kind of like this - but she was 10x as horrible of a person. 

And I mean horrible like razor blades in Halloween candy horrible.  In my time spent there, one position turned over 3 times.  3 TIMES.  I don't remember most names/faces after blocking out the memories but at least 10 people quit our department while I was there.  One of which was my friend who left in about 6 weeks.  It was not for the faint of heart.

Sometimes grown women would break down crying in my office.   I'd probably laugh a little at them if didn't also cry myself.   Once after crashing into another driver on my way to work.  The woman I hit screamed at me for taking a second to look at the damage on my own car (probably a friend or relative of the soulless Nazi in my office).    Then once when I had to return to the building at 10pm in my pajamas on Halloween to make sure I locked the door after being the last one out.   With my luck a stapler would have gotten stolen and she'd revoke my bathroom privileges to teach me a lesson.  Not worth the risk.

A few other highlights included being asked to verify my coordinator was pregnant (this was an HR department), being whispered to in meetings with the appropriate things to say out loud, direction on the best font to use on my spreadsheets.  This was not my first job nor did I ever agree with the crap she was feeding me.  But it wasn't worth the energy of fighting back, especially since she typically loved to make you look dumb in a room full of colleagues. One of her victims sent anonymous hate mail to the office highlighting the irony in her ability to judge people while her son's name appeared in the local police blotter.

Always imagined it looking  like one of these scary ransom notes.  Wishful thinking.

The breaking point came when she verbally assaulted me because I was unable to dislodge one of her documents from my printer. I will never know why I was personally responsible for her printing needs but clearly I was the worst possible choice.  I resigned a few weeks later and nobody really asked why.  And it was especially comfortable when she suggested an exit interview in her office.  I sat there sweating for about 45 minutes, confirming her suggestions as to why I was leaving while she wrote down every word.  Being on trial for murder would probably be less stressful.  I swear it probably said I loved it there and was just relocating to another country.

The best part of the entire story is that, years later, someone reported the department as a "hostile work environment" through the Whistleblower Hotline. This led to investigation and ultimately a forced resignation by our fearless leader.  

Last I heard she was employed by an alcoholic beverages distributor.  Since she is not at all fun (drunk or otherwise) I will make the assumption that decision makers were tipping the bottle during her interview process.

Up In the Air

Over the years, I’ve been very fortunate in the airplane neighbor department.   (A quick nod to my electrician – a blog follower and lovely person who I met on a flight around 2008.  He and his friend saved my life while we were trapped on the runway for 3 hours with no food. Well, they had no food after I ate their entire bag of mini Oreos without technically asking.)

I know, "golden Oreos" sound gross. But beggars can't be choosers. 

This week, however, my luck changed.  My airplane neighbor was horrendous.  Zero chance of the trip ending in an exchange of contact information and misty eyes/sad hearts while passing through customs.  Sometimes you just know things won't go well, and I knew right away.

We were on flight to Heathrow in seats facing one other.  Our introduction started when he proceeded to remove his shoes in my section then throw all his items through my seating area into his.  A simple solution would probably include walking to his own seat and just placing them down. He told me "I feel like I'm in a prison" - this was funny because he had an empty seat to his right and also apparently had ample room to stretch body parts into my comfort zone to the left.

As long as you cough when the shutter goes off, they can't tell.

Just in case you are wondering, there is no better time to unbutton your shirt and scratch yourself for at least ten minutes, freeing mountains of chest hair (sans undershirt of course). The next logical step is to recline the seat and relax, making sure to fully expose your sweaty pit stains.  Then when you enter your Zen-like state, you should use the hot towel to wipe your sweaty face dramatically and enjoy a quick snort/cough combination into it. Then promptly place it on top of our divider so I can hope it will fall and grace me with traces of your DNA.

Did I mention he smelled?  And not even of body odor but like cologne that is only applied before a Middle School Dance.  And not by the kids.  By the janitor who is trying to pick up a single mom in the parking lot.  My nephews wouldn’t even wear that crap. But hey, at least he got his moneys' worth because that scent lingered for a solid 7 hours.

I'm glad there was something stuck in his beard, deep on the bottom under his chin, because at that angle I could see it clearly from my seat.  I really had to flex my mental muscles to try guessing what it could be.   For you wrestling fans, picture Captain Lou Albano…but this was not an elastic band.  It was definitely a crumb from breakfast or some type of soap-like residue that has been forming a ball for a few weeks.

When this guy's beard is more manicured than yours, it's time to take a hard look at your life.

The suffering stopped as soon as I got the green light to raise the partition separating our faces.  Until, of course, the damn thing wouldn’t stay up.  So not only did I tell this guy he was gross by way of opaque shield but I had to hold it up for 10 minutes figuring out what was wrong with it.  He finally reached over and pulled it into lock position himself.  And yes, it’s slightly uncomfortable when you require help with the hiding process from the person you are trying to hide from.  It’s sort of like asking a guy during a bad date to please delete your phone number/email promptly and not to try finding you on Facebook.

Luckily I made it home with no grossness in the adjacent seats.  But be certain that if he was even in my row, I would have screamed "rape".

"Where's the Rest of Ya?"

56.

My boss believes it's the age when people are allowed to say/do whatever they want.

Interesting answer since I always reserved that type of behavior for 80+.  After 8 decades of life, I want the option to be complete insane and wear tacky clothing if I so choose.   But 56?  Last time I checked, that isn't even old (although as a kid I actually thought most people died in their 50s).

I asked him the question based purely on the fact that, more and more, I am encountering ballsy old people.  Maybe I'm less tolerant from having no living grandparents since 2nd grade.  But there is clearly a point where all socially accepted behavior becomes a thing of the past.  (We all got temporary exemptions on Spring Break trips, in case you were wondering.)

Apparently the writers of Family Guy agree with me.

A few years back I actually had to switch rows on an airplane because a old woman said "she really needed" my seat.  She just decided that being old gave her the right to claim it and refused to get up.  Saying she'd consider switching later in the flight did not make up for my new spot in the middle seat, by the way.  (Although I really didn't need to sit near my husband en route to an island trip for our anniversary.  Good thing I was not at all supported by the flight crew.)

I'm sure there are things they don't fully understand - for example, the concept of therapy dogs. Back in the day, nobody offered you a Golden Retriever for support during difficult times.  You were either beaten into normalcy with a wooden spoon or sent away to "summer camp".  So why was I surprised watching an old dude in a velour sweatsuit and sunglasses (inside the mall) point and stare at a lady and her dog? Eventually he approached her and I cringed.  I can't imagine how the conversation went since it was awkward enough to watch from 20 feet away.  Probably something like "What is wrong with you?  Are you blind?  I'm 93 and can walk without a dog.  He shouldn't be near the food court."  

Unless you are no longer capable of making rational decisions (as determined by your doctor and/or children).

Since the transformation from perky boobs to wrinkled skin bags is so gradual, do they not notice the difference in their physical appearance? Unlikely since they are typically the first people to point out things that are wrong with everyone else.  A total stranger in Nordstrom (982 years old at the absolute youngest) asked me how I was able to wear the heels I was trying on "with that bunion". Until that point, I thought my feet were fine.

I know we're all not getting any younger and will be the same way eventually.  But please, when appropriate, keep your old people on leashes and don't let them out after dark unattended.

**While writing this post, I got an email about a grandmother who attempted to smuggle a butcher knife onto an airplane.  The excuse was that she uses it to sharpen her eyebrow pencil.  (She gets a lifetime pass in my book because that is actually awesome.)