Psych 101 at Orwell Inc.

Another long week here…quiet, but weird as usual. My particular peeve this week is insecure people. How in hell they get through their day being so scared is beyond me.

Half my floor is filled with power-mad, decision-lusting executives, the other half is doormat mice who cower at the slightest stress. Not even their Vuitton bags or Jimmy Choo heels can make it go away. Phones are constantly attached to ears, as if a minute of silence will nihilate them. The whispers and giggles just don’t stop. It’s funny I was going to be a teacher, because this is just like working with third-graders. Only the lunchboxes are Gucci bags, and the saddle shoes are 3-inch heels. Work is not the order of the day, it’s how they look while they look like they’re working. It’s quite amusing.



I have started to count how many times one individual’s cell keeps popping up on a particular line. Yesterday, I counted to 6 within 3 hours. A family member, no doubt. Six times? How can you NOT notice the same number popping up six times? If I see it, the higher-ups must see it, too.



Neurosis rules the day. People who do not like each other pretend that they do, sniping behind their backs when the other is not present. Birthday/holiday gifts are given to people who really don’t deserve them after turncoating and lies weave themselves through the weeks and months. I find this to be pathological and rather contradictory. Perhaps some nice volumes of Piaget, Erickson, and Freud would do well on my desk? I’ve got some shelf space, kiddies.



My particular favorite flavor of the week is a man I’ll call Nandy. He is routinely rude and curt with everyone around him. Yesterday I was told to stop what I was doing and call downstairs. I dialed the number from my phone, handed him the receiver and asked, “Why don’t you try and reach her? I’ve never met the person you’re talking about.” The look of bewilderment was priceless. Minutes later, I got a call from his assistant asking me why she saw my number and then heard his voice. “I was teaching him how to be independent,” was my reply. She cackled with laughter.



Since I know how much he loves the spotlight, I have stopped giving him any attention at all. I routinely leave my desk (“ladies room” excuse) without looking him in the eye when he stops in adjacent offices. When I do glance his way, he is usually staring right at me, probably wondering why I am not bowing to his corporate omnipotence. He’s an immature child from what I’ve heard, and one that would slit my throat, that’s why. Been there, done that. It was called My Previous Job. I protect me since no one else cares to. That in itself is a full-time job. There are people who bow to Nandy, though. The ‘insecurities’, I’ll call them. They fear this man as if he’s got a gun in his pocket. HA! He gets lost trying to get to Penn Station, and that’s only two blocks away. And people ask me why I don’t have kids yet? Puhhlease, I work with them. This place is turning into romper room with Nino Cerruti suits. All we need is milk and cookies and maybe a sandbox to complete the transformation.



No wonder mid-life crises come about—all these people running around trying to find status as opposed to authenticity. It’s just a job, kiddies. You can’t take it with you. They know the price of everything (to impress each other) and the value of nothing. They’ll never have my sympathy. Not even with that proverbial gun to my head.