Newsflash: I Don’t Like You

Back in the day, I was the female manager in the typical small business who was forced by stereotype and a cheap business owner to handle HR duties along with running the Accounting department. I was never any good at it, because I couldn’t help but provide differing levels of service. Like helping the bestie invest her 401(k) and telling that asshat from Project Management that if his dental claim was denied, well, your insurance card has a toll free number on the back of it for just that sort of problem. Then there’s the “I’m not good at pretending to like people I can’t stand” issue.

I’ve long since been relieved of those duties, or anything pertaining to them, but these people are like Pavlov’s dogs, and every time they have some stupid question (how do I change my withholding? IT’S CALLED A W4. HOW DO YOU OPERATE HERE IN ADULT LAND? SHOULD I FOLLOW YOU TO THE BATHROOM AND WIPE YOUR ASS FOR YOU TOO), they come arunnin’ to the Finance department.

Normally, the venerable B is seated prettily at her desk, right outside my office like a devoted sentry. She’s nicer, and better at acting like she likes people, so they usually whine to her about their boring, silly problems instead of bothering me.

She’s out today, and in a horribly inconvenient juxtaposition, one of my least favorite people in the office is suffering a personal crisis of catastrophic proportion.

My reasons for not liking the guy are several:

- I once claimed a pretty Christmas cookie tin with a note that said “Catherine wants this tin”, which when said five times fast still doesn’t sound like “Catherine wants this freakazoid”, but that’s what he thought it meant when he cornered me in the break room to ask me why I didn’t just tell him how I felt.

- He has a cackle that resounds through our entire office. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and not in a good way.

- He usually cackles as he makes his way through the cube farm, telling everyone who will listen the same lame joke, so that by the time he gets to Marketing (one row south of us in Finance), I could fucking tell it FOR HIM.

- He used to punch me in the arm when we passed each other in the hall. Like I was a teenage boy or something.

- He’s just creepy, and he tells all of us how pretty we are all the time. Which should be a compliment that makes me happy, but whenever he does it, I just imagine him cuddling up to the company directory with a jar of Vaseline. ~shudders~

Anyway. Rumor has it that his marriage ended today. Which is very sad and unfortunate, and I never like to hear of a marriage failing, though it is my understanding that they were merely perpetually engaged (for tax reasons? alimony? child support?), which is slightly less romantic. However. My point is that I am by no means belittling the significance of his crisis.

I still don’t fucking like him, though. So when he came all red-rimmed eyes and wobbly chin to ask me about changing his direct deposit, I answered his question without inquiring further. His disappointment was apparent in the way he sulked off with his figurative (or maybe literal, it wouldn’t surprise me) tail between his legs. It was also apparent when he came back to my office ANOTHER FOUR TIMES to sniffle and ask the same questions.

Hey, asshat? Did I fall sobbing into your arms when my own marriage ended? Natch. I did not. Did I like you yesterday? No, I did not. Do I like you today? No, I do not. Chances for tomorrow? Not lookin’ good. I know you must have a support system back there in Nerdtown (these guys are so undesirable that I refuse to call them geeks, because, well, geeks are guys you might consider dating, and these are bald-mullet-virgins), so go boo-hoo at them.

I don’t fucking like you, and no amount of personal tragedy is going to override my distaste.

I will give you some advice, though…

That pointy weirdo creeper goatee is not going to help you with the ladies when you get back out on the market.

Just sayin.

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