The big c.

Before I leave this place, I feel I must pay homage to my officemate. This snowman sweater-wearing, Grand Prix-driving, church-going bitch has made my 2 years here as comfortable as a gynecological exam. I affectionately call her Cathy Cunt. And yes ladies, it was necessary for me to bust out the C word. A sampler, if you will:

“Most of us don’t eat our lunches at our desks. The smell of your food… it bothers me.” Note: It’s not like I’m eating lox or Italian sausages. Blimpie sandwiches, frozen meals, salads. I have continued to eat my lunch at my desk, and I will, up until my last day here. Perhaps on my last day, I’ll bring in curry.

“You may want to drink the tap water, instead of the bottled water. We usually reserve the bottled water for clients.” Keep in mind that the ENTIRE OFFICE drinks the bottled water.

“Some people here are working late almost every night, while others are not. It’s frustrating to see our revenues are soft.” This was said, with rolling eyes, during a company meeting. It was a result of her angst over the fact that she had been working overtime, and others’ schedules (including mine) dictated a 40-hour work week.

This next example can’t be boiled down to a quote. She went to her boss and said that I told her my salary (which I would NEVER do, cause I know I earn about $15,000 more a year than she does). Her boss went to my boss, who then brought it up during my job review. I had to confront her about it. She denied it. Basically, she made me out to be unethcial, so she could increase her salary. She ended up implicating herself in the matter, and I was vindicated. But nevertheless, there was no disciplinary action, and no apology.

She eavesdrops on the conversations I have with other co-workers. In one instance, she twisted the facts and reported them back to another co-worker (which created plenty of mayhem). Whenever co-workers come to my office, we leave the room so we can discuss projects in confidentiality.

Before I leave, I’m going to leave a sticky note on her desk. It will say only this, “52,000.” She won’t know who it’s from. Or what it means, for sure. But it will torment her, for maybe, maybe, she will realize it was MY SALARY. Someone pass the Tamoxifen. This woman is a cancer.